“You can’t have it both ways,” Summer says sweetly. She refuses to back down from him, staring up with narrowed green eyes. “Either you will prevent me from following you, or once you escape — /if/ you escape — my actions no longer matter.” She laughs, sharp and harsh, and runs a finger along the curve of his jaw.“You can’t stop me, pretty prince. You can’t even find a way out. You’re useless. No hope.” She backs up a step, and another, before turning her back on him and returning to the surface.
Mordred’s hand captures her wrist, squeezing until, if he wanted to, he could easily have snapped the bone. “I can have it anyway I please,” he hisses, “I will leave, gather an army, kill Arthur and take my place as rightful king, you will stay here and rot for all I care.”
He eventually lets go of her wrist, throwing it back at her before she walked away. For a moment, he stayed, scowling up at her before he turned on his heel, storming towards his chambers.
Outside, the wind cutting across her face, Summer cradles her wrist, fingertips dancing along the lines of pain. For that, he would pay. Slowly. But she could hold her revenge.
Hold it until she found the way out. Just the day before, she had come across a book in the crumbling library that hinted at a way. Her mind whirls with plans. Pushing off the wall, she snaps the pain of her crushed wrist into whomever is standing nearby, eliciting a shriek of agony, and stalks toward the library.