Sir Bors was poised mid-strike against a man in leather armor. Sir Safir was punching his opponent in the face, his greaves bloodstained. Arthur had a man on the ground, sword tip at the man’s throat, and his face was pale with fury beneath the dirt and sweat and blood.

Emrys stood in the middle of the chaos, one hand outstretched, the other resting on the length of a gnarled wooden staff. Even from where Lila was on the ground, pinned by some unseen force, she could see his eyes blazing silver.

Lila swallowed hard and willed her limbs to move. After a moment, she levered herself up. “Emrys?”

He frowned at her. “You’re unaffected?”

“You made this happen?” Lila asked.

“The court sorceror must earn his keep somehow,” Emrys said, his expression wry. Silver flashed in his eyes, and then Arthur stepped back from his opponent.

“I hate it when you do that.” Arthur shook himself out. “So, do we kill them or leave and wait till the spell wears off?”

“You’re the king,” Emrys said.

“Can’t you tell the future?”