She had pushed the door open, stepped in, and turned back to him once again. “That wasn’t actually a request. Sir Mordred. If you do not send for me, I will go alone.” Her eyes flashed, and all trace of lightheartedness was gone from her face.
Mordred raised an eyebrow; well, that would be one way of almost assuring a place in the party. She seemed pretty determined to get back at the bandits.
”I will make sure to send for you, my lady,” Mordred corrected himself.
She nodded, sharply, and went back into the room, letting the door close. She leaned back against it for a brief moment before all but crawling into the bed. The knowledge that she was completely safe, that she had made it to Camelot and survived, slowly sank in, and she curled up into a ball and just shook with relief for a long time.
Sleep overtook her at some point, and in her dream she relived the attack. Half a dozen men, ill-kempt but well-armed, bursting out of the underbrush and surrounding her. Her horse rearing, frightened, as someone waved a torch under its nose. Unable to draw her daggers, with hands full of reins, and unable to fix her mind on more than one attacker at a time. One, only one, going up in flames, and then someone grabbing her leg and dragging, and the fire spun out of control, sparks spitting everywhere but to no avail.
Summer woke up screaming.