He looked so proud and fair, so far out of reach, sitting at her table. If she were truly home, then perhaps … but she was in Camelot alone, with little to rely on but her own wits and magic. Summer offered him a cup of wine. “You should smile more, Mordred. It suits you so well.”
He smirked, taking the goblet from her. “Thank you,” he says, taking a sip. “Perhaps,” he adds with a laugh, “you have a lovely home by the way.”
Playfully, she curtsied. “Thank you, kind sir. I am but a poor maid here in the capital.” Placing both hands on the table, she leaned over its scant width. “Mordred.”