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Clay stood at his desk, gripping the edge of the table tightly.

A storm raged inside of his chest – a hurricane. He had felt like this before. Felt angry. Confused. But he had always been able to manage it.

Now, his emotions felt out of control.

For a moment, he wasn't sure what he was going to do. He felt like throwing something, maybe, or destroying something. Just to make the outside look the way he felt on the inside. But before he could do anything stupid, an image outside his window caught his eye. He watched George lead Daisy from the stables, jump on her back, and ride through the castle gates into the darkening night.

The sight startled him. He sat down heavily at his desk, the image filling up his mind and momentarily quieting the storm.

George left, like Clay had told him to. Was he leaving for good?

Let him go, a bitter, retributive voice in his head hissed. You can find a servant who's twice as good, and half as irritating.

But the instant he let himself actually picture a world without George by his side, that sentiment crumbled away like sand.

George was special. He was smart. Smarter than people gave him credit for. He was incredibly brave. Every time Clay got himself in a scrape, George threw himself in right alongside him, even though he had no real way to defend himself. He had an incredibly good heart. He cared about everything and everyone, even animals, to a degree Clay sometimes found ridiculous, but always endearing.

There was nobody else like George, not to Clay. His being Clay's servant was just a technicality. The idea of replacing him was – was laughable.

And Clay had just told him to leave.

But you had to, Clay told himself, his mind spinning again, the storm starting up and swirling his thoughts into gusts. George had been defending magic. He had been irrational, had been saying dangerous things. What else was Clay supposed to do?

The inherent evil of magic was something Clay knew to be true. Fundamentally. Deep down, in the parts of himself that never changed. He knew his duty was to protect the things he cared most about: his family, his friends, and above all, Camelot. He also knew that magic threatened Camelot. Every time. Without exception. Therefore, his duty was to eliminate magic.

But apparently, George believed differently. Didn't that count for something? Didn't it count that Clay, himself, had seen a gray area? Had hesitated when looking into that woman's eyes?

What if George is right? he thought, and even putting that sentiment into words felt terrifying. It was questioning a premise he had accepted unquestioningly for his entire life. It was challenging his father's bedrock beliefs. It was acknowledging that, all this time, for all these years, Clay might have been wrong.

His mother's words echoed softly in his head. You know truth, Clay.

He didn't know what the truth was in this moment. His father and George, two people he trusted implicitly, had looked at the same woman, had heard the same words, and had left with entirely different minds. Clay had left torn between the two. Directly in the middle.

Clay needed to see the sorcerer again, for himself. Needed to talk to her. Surely, he must have missed something about her – something that would unlock the answer, something that would confirm to him that his father was being rational, rather than tyrannical. That he hadn't based his worldview on a lie. He felt himself stand and move towards the doors, propelled forward by the steady drum of his heartbeat in his ears.

He only had tonight to figure this out for himself. By the time morning came, it would be too late.

The cold evening air whipped against George's face and through his hair as he urged Daisy on faster through the forest, stinging his eyes and distracting him from the emotion bubbling up in his chest.

He was running away. He was being a coward. Again.

But Clay had told him to leave, and he just... he just needed to go. He couldn't be in that castle. Couldn't go to bed knowing a sorcerer was locked away in the dungeon. Couldn't face his grandmother again, having failed.

And what else could he do? Brute-magic his way through the royal guard to release Cecily? Force himself into exile, or more likely, onto a pyre?

Maybe a better man would, George thought. Maybe he would, still. But not right now. He needed some time to think.

Daisy seemed to be following a path through the forest known only to her, and he trusted her and let her lead as the night grew darker, until suddenly they were emerging from the treeline into an open space and George saw the lake he had visited in his boyhood, shimmering with moonlight. His breath caught in his throat as Daisy slowed to a walk, the wind rustling softly in the trees.

"Good girl," George whispered as he hopped off, patting Daisy on the shoulder. He started to walk towards the water, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

Soft ripples ran along the surface of the lake, making the reflection of the moon shiver in its center. George looked around him but saw nobody, as usual, just the tall branches of trees reaching towards the sky and swaying slowly in the breeze. Across the lake, he saw the rocks where he had once laid out with Dream in the sun, the treeline where the bandits had emerged all those years ago. It was the first time George had used his magic to protect Dream, the first of a series of moments that Dream had never known about. Might never know about.

His hands itched and his mind raced with thoughts he couldn't quiet, and he decided to do something he rarely let himself indulge in. He decided to take his magic for a spin.

George wandered closer to the forest to gather a few branches, hoping to try out a new vocal spell he had been practicing in his free time. Gathering a few sticks together, he set them aflame with a flick of his wrist, coaxing the flame until it licked up the branches and dissolved them into embers.

Placing his hands over the sparks and focusing his mind on the result he wanted, George took a breath and whispered in the Old Language: "upastiye drakon."

The embers swirled to life under his hands and flew into the air above the lake, and as George kept careful control over their flight, they rearranged themselves into the form of a dragon, stretching towards the sky. Delighted, George tried to push the embers a little further to get the dragon to roar, but here he lost his control over the sparks and they dissipated into the night.

George exhaled and dropped his hands, resolving to practice more. This spell was more about tact than pure strength. He could have surged forward with all his magic, but – the embers just would have gone out. It was like his gran said: it was easier to destroy than to create with magic.

Like anything. That was the important end to the phrase. Like anything. Magic was no ethically distinct from a sword, or a rock for that matter. They could all be used to hurt. They could all be used to help.

George looked down at his hands and clenched them into fists a few times, feeling the sparks in his fingers and repeating it to himself.

You're not evil. You're not. And this isn't wrong.

"That was cute," came a voice from behind him, and George whirled, sudden panic cracking through him like a lightning bolt.

A woman stood behind him, observing him closely.

He had been seen.

Clay had about two thousand second thoughts as he made his way to the dungeons, but before any could take hold, he was descending into the lowest level of the castle. He never had reason to visit the dungeons, and the damp stone corridors lit by flickering torches seemed unfamiliar and unwelcoming as he neared the heavy wooden door which led to the sorcerer's cell.

Pushing it open, he saw Ponk and Callahan jumping to attention, having been put on first watch. When they saw Clay, they relaxed slightly.

"Is everything alright?" Ponk asked. Callahan looked attentive and concerned.

"Nothing's wrong," Clay assured him. "I need to talk to the prisoner. Alone."

Ponk and Callahan glanced at each other, and then into the cell. The bars to the cell were made of heavy wrought iron, and through them, Clay caught a glimpse of the sorcerer. She sat on the floor in the corner, her hands and feet chained, leaning against the stone wall.

"Okay," Ponk eventually said, as Callahan shrugged. "I guess that's fine. We'll stand right outside. Shout if you need us."

"Thank you," Clay said as his friends nodded and left the dungeon, the door shutting behind them. He walked slowly towards the bars of the sorcerer's cell, stopping about a foot away.

The sorcerer kept her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. Her face looked lined with exhaustion. She didn't look otherworldly. Didn't look ethereal. Didn't look like anything except a woman huddled in the corner of a cell. Clay grit his teeth.

"My name is Clay," he said, breaking the silence. "I wanted to talk to you."

The sorcerer glanced at him briefly. Her gaze was appraising.

"If you try anything," Clay warned, "there are two guards waiting just outside."

"I'm not going to do anything," the sorcerer said, lifting her chains and tilting her head towards the bars of the cell. She had an interesting voice, sort of husky and strong. "I don't know any spells that can break through iron."

Clay narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. "You could still do something else," he muttered.

"Like what," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Turn you green? Give you warts?"

Was that a joke? Clay didn't laugh. "I don't know," he said defensively. "I don't know what – what sorcerers like you do to people."

She actually rolled her eyes at that. "Am I the first sorcerer you've ever spoken to?" she asked.

"Yes," Clay said with certainty. "I don't keep company with traitors."

"Then I don't blame you for not knowing that we're just normal people," Cecily said, pulling her legs a little closer to her body, "and normal people generally don't like hurting other people randomly. So. You're safe."

Clay bit the inside of his lip. He wasn't blind. He could see what this situation would look like to an outsider. His father was putting this woman to death, and yet she wasn't lifting a finger against Clay. Wasn't even raising her voice.

"Why are you here?" the woman asked. She seemed tired.

"I don't really know," Clay said. "Except that a friend of mine seems to think... well, I don't know what he thinks. That you're innocent? That I should let you go?"

"Interesting," the woman said, her gaze thoughtful.

There had to be a trick. There had to be something Clay couldn't see here. There had to be more than a helpless person stoically accepting her fate. Whatever confirmation Clay was looking for that Daniel was in the right, he hadn't found it yet. And it freaked him out.

"Okay, drop the act. What's your game?" he snapped, glaring at the sorcerer. "Seriously. You must be planning something."

"What makes you think that?"

"You're - you're so calm, it's like you don't even care you're about to die. Why didn't you defend yourself at the trial?"

She met his gaze levelly. "Would it have mattered?"

"You could have tried, at least," Clay said, avoiding the question. "At this point it feels like you have a death wish."

A dark look flashed across her face and her forehead furrowed into a soft glare. "It wouldn't have mattered," she answered her own question. "I knew the law. I knew what would happen the minute I healed my kids. I did it anyway. I don't feel like embarrassing myself begging for mercy I won't get."

"So you'll just sit there quietly until tomorrow morning?" Clay said angrily. "I'm not that naïve."

"Maybe you are," she responded, matching his volume. "Have you ever had something you would give your life for, Prince Clay?"

The words stopped him in his tracks. "Yes," he said finally, his arms falling to his side, his hands balling into fists. "I would give my life to keep my kingdom safe."

The sorcerer nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on Clay. "That's what they say about you," she said softly. The words sent a shiver of surprise down Clay's spine. "They say you're different from your father. That you care about the people."

"Of course I do," Clay muttered.

The sorcerer just kind of hummed noncommittally. "If you do feel that way... maybe you can understand. You think there's anything I wouldn't do to keep my children safe? You're wrong. I die tomorrow. So what?" She shrugged. "They're home safe, right now. Alive. Breathing. So I say fair trade. Done deal." She made a motion like she was brushing her hands off, and then returned her gaze to the stone wall. But when she spoke next, her voice kind of trembled, betraying the fact that she wasn't as stoic as she seemed. "Now if you're done trying to convince yourself I'm some evil demon, or something, I'd like to spend my last night with my thoughts, instead of nursing your feelings, Your Highness."

The words shook Clay, threatening to throw him off-balance. Because they seemed true. But there had to be more here, there had to be. "I trust my father more than I trust you," Clay said, shoving a finger at the woman. "And I'm not different from him. There has to be a reason for this."

"Whatever you say," the woman sighed, but as Clay turned and stalked away from the cell, she said, "but you are different, no matter what you think."

"And why is that?" Clay threw over his shoulder.

"You came here, didn't you?"

Clay stopped still at the door, his heart racing. He felt the sorcerer's eyes on his back.

He didn't turn. He pushed through the door and waved off Ponk and Callahan.

He needed to talk to his father.

The voice that had startled George belonged to a woman with a pale face and long, silver hair. She wore a dark blue cloak that swept behind her as she walked steadily towards George, stopping a few paces away.

George took a defensive step back, his hands balling into fists. "Who are you?" he asked warily. His mind scrambled for an excuse but found none even worth trying. Oh, that whole magic dragon thing? – yeah, total coincidence –

But the woman didn't look afraid of him. Instead, she looked supremely interested. Her eyes were strangely light, probably blue? – but in the night, they looked almost white. Her face was cunning and she gave George a broad, sharp smile.

"My name is Minx," she said. "Don't worry. I don't bite. Much."

Minx lifted her hand and conjured sparks from mid-air, silently blowing a similar ember-dragon to life. This one, unlike George's, was animated; it flapped its wings as it flew several loops around George before arcing up towards the sky, breathing out flame and then scattering to the wind.

George's heart caught in his throat, and he looked at the woman with large, wild eyes.

"You're magic," he breathed, both relieved and shocked. Aside from his grandmother, and Cecily in the dungeons, he had never met another magic user. Especially not one who seemed close to his age.

"Not just magic," Minx responded, her eyes glittering. She had an unfamiliar accent, and her voice held a strange, enchanting lilt. "An elemental. Just like you, George."

George laughed in utter disbelief before double-taking. "Sorry... how do you know my name?"

"I've heard of you," she said, taking a step towards him. "I've been meaning to meet with you."

"And... why is that?"

"I have a plan that I think you'll want to hear. A plan to bring power back to sorcerers in Camelot," she said, and then, perhaps picking up on the way George's eyes started to narrow, quickly followed with, "and a plan to save the woman scheduled to burn tomorrow."

This gave George pause, and though he heard distant alarm bells ringing in his head, his desperation for a solution that might help Cecily drowned them out. "Well... what's your plan?"

Minx smirked and motioned for George to follow her. He fell into step beside her as she started to walk around the lake. She slipped a hand through his arm, holding him at the crook of his elbow and throwing him slightly off-guard as she started to speak.

"You heard've what's happening in Mercia, George?"

"Only rumors," George mumbled, glancing at Minx. She was beautiful, in a strange, wild sort of way. Her smirk lingered on her lips, and her eyes were bright and focused on something in the distance.

"Tell me what you know," she said.

"That the government is crumbling," he said, thinking back to all the stories he had whispered heard around the castle. "That magic is going completely unrestricted. That sorcerers are gaining more and more power."

Minx chuckled. "Good. That's what we want all the little people to know. But it's not the whole story. That part's much more interesting."

"What is the whole story?"

"The story is the Circle," Minx breathed, and then launched into an account of a world George had never known.

The Circle was a sorcerer's guild that had survived for decades, throughout the purges and the repression, operating secretly and always with the intention of protecting sorcerers in Albion. It was a small group, made up of an elite few who had retained powerful positions in various kingdoms. Nobles with magic blood, advisors with hidden practices. A slight majority of them resided in Mercia, hence their initial attempts at legalizing magic the straight-forward way, Minx explained with a wince, referring to the Mercian decision which had almost led to war with Camelot some years ago.