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Mordred stopped, placing his vambrace down on the bench, his heart sinking. For a moment he concentrates completely on his armour, how could he answer such a question? Telling her would mean her life and the lives of those whom called Camelot home. An impossible predicament.
The young knight turns to face her, his fingers brushing lightly against the metal of his armour. “I’m not hiding anything” he tells her simply.
Summer is lost, in a different way now. Her mind is overwhelmed by the proximity of the bandits surrounding her, by the threat of them. Her eyes burn as the man who had been touching her screams and writhes in the heart of her fire, gaze fixed to him. Mordred’s voice tugs at her awareness, but not enough to bring her out of the engrossment.
Her whole awareness is danger. When the first man is ashes on the ground, his shrieks still echoing, she lifts her burning gaze to the pair linked by sword, vision unrecognising.
Ragnor glances from Summer then to Mordred and back again several times, the tip of Mordred’s blade intruding on the flesh and eventually the elder man’s face changes. “Let her go,” he orders and the men allow her to drop to the ground. Normally, he would have run straight to her but he didn’t, he lowered the blade of his sword, placing it back in its sheath before he moved towards her. “You’re all fools,” he tells them, “she would be useful, for Morgana.”
The idea of bringing her to Morgana was the only thing that would stop Ragnor from killing not only her but him. Although the whole idea was not his intent, not in the slightest.
She struggles to her feet, hands held wide, eyes still fixed on Ragnor. Fire dances in the palms of each hand, irises brilliant gold. She shows no awareness of Mordred at all, in fact. One step toward Ragnor, and another, and she breathes, “You burn.”