Chapter 20: A Night Watch in Camelot

The night passed. The banquet concluded. At least, in Artoria’s eyes, it was a rousing success. Host and guest, she probably thought, had enjoyed themselves immensely. She, for one, had achieved a state of bliss for both body and soul. Never mind that eighty percent of the food on the table, meant to be in his honor, had vanished into her impossibly small stomach. Zeilin at first had recoiled from the British cuisine, which looked less appetizing than some of the poisons he’d been forced to drink. But between the girl’s relentless enthusiasm and a second, ‘mixed’ version of the Stargazy Pie she claimed to have made herself, the Witcher finally surrendered. He praised the food, offered his compliments, and watched her beam with satisfaction. For Artoria, what could be better?

Later, when she had retired, full and content, Zeilin gathered the pile of fish heads and shrimp shells—all of whom looked to have died in silent protest—wrapped them in parchment, and took them outside the castle walls to be burned. He followed up with a sprinkling of mugwort and dimeritium dust, a proper ritual to ensure no nasty spirits were drawn to the remains. He then politely refused the guest quarters Artoria had arranged for him. He would meditate by the castle gate instead, to keep watch. For evil spirits… And for the Wild Hunt.

He wasn't wearing his Griffin medallion; it was safe with Francesca. That meant he was blind to the thrum of magic. He’d have to rely on his ears, his nose, and the prickling intuition that had kept him alive for a century. When a Witcher slept, truly slept, his senses were as dull as any common man’s. Zeilin hadn't slept deeply in years. Meditation was his rest. After all, monsters weren't the only threat on the Path. Assassins lurked in the shadows, and zealots, mad with devotion to the Eternal Fire, were always eager to prove their piety by trying to kill a Witcher.

A cool wind tugged at the grey strands in his hair. At a hundred years old, he was practically a youth by Witcher or mage standards. To a normal human, though, he was ancient enough to be their great-grandfather. Thank the gods his beard hadn't turned white yet. He had no desire to be called ‘grandpa.’ Mages often kept an elderly appearance, thinking it gave them an air of authority. Witchers preferred to look younger. Folk feared a young, sharp swordsman. They rarely feared an old man with a sword, not until they saw what he could do with it.

Zeilin closed his eyes, sinking into the deep calm of meditation. The chirp of crickets, the croak of frogs—it all faded away. The world dissolved, leaving only the Witcher. No sky, no earth, no time. It was how they shut out the noise. The gratitude, the curses, the fear… when he closed his eyes, none of it mattered. Coin, fame, power, honor—all just smoke. No gods watching over him, no demons cursing his name. Just the Witcher, alone. The world didn't give a damn; it treated all creatures like straw dogs for the slaughter. A shame not all Witchers could find this peace. The Cats, now just a pack of hired killers, had lost it long ago.

He didn't know how long he’d been under when the crunch of iron boots on stone pulled him back. He opened his eyes, the beastly pupils instantly sharp, scanning the castle as his hand drifted to the sword on his back. Two knights on the battlements, making their rounds. A servant dozing in a corridor, leaning against a wall. The servant would be woken soon, probably with a sharp kick and a reprimand from the next patrol. But the footsteps weren't theirs. Servants and common soldiers wore leather boots. Camelot’s forges and iron reserves weren't so vast they could afford to clad every man in full plate. In Zeilin’s world, only elite corps like the Nilfgaardian Nauzicaa Brigade got that luxury.

The Witcher’s nose twitched. Amidst the scents of stone and night-blooming flowers, he caught a familiar one. His memory for human scents wasn't as sharp as for monsters, but he made it a habit to catalog the people he met. The way they looked, walked, their little tells. He hadn't met that many people in Camelot today. And this one, with his distinctive bearing, was hard to forget. Lancelot.

What was he doing skulking about at this hour? Artoria had said Lancelot was the guardian of the palace, that he lived within the castle walls, though he had his own manor in the city. What she hadn't explained, what Zeilin found… odd… was that Lancelot’s guard duty seemed to primarily consist of watching over Queen Guinevere’s chambers, not King Arthur’s. And the King and Queen lived in separate wings of the palace. Zeilin had never heard of a king who would let his top general stand guard over his queen's private chambers. Especially when the king and queen themselves were so clearly estranged. At the banquet, there'd been no sign of conflict between Artoria and Guinevere, but a strange sort of distance. And Artoria… she always looked at her queen with a hint of guilt. Interesting, and more interesting…

Zeilin rose, silent as a shadow. Faint muddy traces on the flagstones. The knight had come through the gardens. Following the faint trail, Zeilin tracked him to Guinevere’s wing of the palace. The girl probably didn't know. Or maybe she chose not to see. On the surface, Camelot was strong, prosperous. But beneath the calmest lake, you never knew what dark currents were churning. He flattened himself against a stone wall, melting into the shadows, easily avoiding the patrols and the servants replacing spent torches. He didn't want to cause trouble for the girl. He just needed to be sure there were no immediate threats to her here, that the Wild Hunt wasn't sniffing around this world. Then, when Francesca opened the way, he could go home. He was just a passerby here, a visitor. And visitors who meddled in the affairs of other worlds often brought ruin. He knew that better than most. Anyone who knew the history of the Conjunctions did. The last Conjunction had brought humans to his world. The Elder Races couldn't stand against them, were forced to surrender their ancient civilizations. Then humans, with the help of mages, had crossed the sea again, conquered the elves and dwarves, and built their own world on the ruins of the old. Without the Conjunctions, the fate of his world would have been entirely different.

The tracks ended at the door to the Queen's bedchamber. Leaning against the cold wood, Zeilin angled his head, peering through a crack in the doorframe. Just as he suspected. In the dead of night, sneaking into Queen Guinevere’s private chambers, was the First Knight of the Round Table, Sir Lancelot. The King’s top general, and the King’s own Queen, meeting in secret. Zeilin had seen enough court politics to know where this sort of thing usually led. A moment later, the tramp of another patrol echoed from the end of the hall. Zeilin glanced back into the room, saw the knight moving to embrace the queen, then pulled back, vanishing completely into the deeper shadows. How exciting…