From broken tiles and mildew-scented couches to marble floors and crystal chandeliers.
The Hôtel de Lys, nestled discreetly near the Seine in Paris, was the sort of place that catered to people with money, secrets, or both. We'd arrived late in the night, bypassing security checkpoints thanks to a little royal presence and a lot of subtle magic.
No one asked why three armed individuals stepped out of a black town car in the middle of a quiet boulevard.
Not these days, with so much news about deaths, disappearances, and now the attack on Lyon, once strict weapon laws seemed to have evaporated like dew from the sun.
The front desk clerk looked up from his terminal and immediately straightened. His eyes lingered on Lancelot—the tall, broad-shouldered knight now wearing a sleek black coat like it belonged on a magazine cover. The man didn't even glance at Mordred or me. His gaze had settled on the assumed head of the party.
"Bonsoir, monsieur," he greeted smoothly, with the professional tone of someone trained to handle oligarchs and visiting nobility. "Checking in?"
"We'll need a suite," Lancelot said calmly, his voice the kind that silenced questions before they formed.
The clerk blinked once. "I… see. Did you have a reservation?"
"No." Lancelot placed a heavy, polished card wallet on the counter and opened it with a deliberate motion, revealing a thick stack of cash and a high-end AmEx. "But I believe we can reach an understanding."
The man's expression flickered—uncertainty, then recognition of authority and money in equal measure. Still, protocol tugged at him.
"There are security concerns, monsieur. Especially with recent events… I'll need identification and a reason for the sudden stay."
Lancelot gave him a level look. "We were staying in Lyon."
That alone caused the clerk to flinch, just slightly.
"But," Lancelot continued, "with the situation there… we decided to relocate."
"Understandable," the man said at once, typing quickly now, as if fearing hesitation might cost him a tip or worse. "Yes. Of course. No questions asked."
"We didn't have time to pack," I added, smiling softly. "Everything was left behind."
"Of course, madame," the clerk replied, with a stiff little bow in my direction. "There aren't a lot of rooms available at this time of night." The clerk said, eyes us, and the wallet. "But I'm sure I can find one worthy of your family, Monsieur." He said, smiling at Lancelot as they began getting a room for us.
Honestly, I somewhat doubted his claim, while a hotel like this might normally be hard to get a room at in a situation like this, without reservations. These days? Few people left their homes, few people went to France, and honestly, the global economy was still struggling.
So no, I didn't buy the fact that there were few rooms available. Instead, I believed he was just saying that, as to make it appear he worked hard to help us, expecting a large tip. Maybe even an excuse to give is the most expensive room they had.
Just because there wasn't anything else available.
Mordred looked out of her element in this elegant hall, the polished marble and dark wood a stark contrast with her red, wild look. Yet, Mordred was my knight, she was used to walking the halls of my castle.
She was royalty, and even though she barely acted like it, she could show off a bit of a refined touch.
Though I think it was the pride she was excluding that made her oddly fit in. She looked like a rebellious young daughter of a rich couple. She had the feel of someone from high society, even if she didn't dress like it.
"So, we're gonna stay here?" She asked as she looked down at the polished wooden table, the surface so smooth she could see her own reflection in it.
"For a bit, yes, now that we have made contact with the local resistance forces, we should wait for them to gather information for us." I explained as I kept her too busy to make a scene.
Because what she had missed so far was the fact that the clerk clearly assumed Lancelot and I were together, and more so, Mordred's parents. If she figured that misunderstanding out, I'm sure she would shoot the guy for the insult, then burn all of Paris to the ground.
She nodded, seemingly appeased, but then glanced over at the chandelier. "Tch. I'd still rather sleep in a tent. This place smells like rich old people and lies."
I smiled faintly. "You won't be saying that once you start using the room service." I reminded her.
Something that indeed made her mood soar. "Damn, I forgot about that! All these fancy hotels bring you as much food as you can eat!"
By the time Lancelot returned with the keycards, Mordred was practically bouncing with anticipation—though she'd never admit that. Her scowl was still in place, but her eyes sparkled with barely contained glee.
"Room service better have real food! Not all that French shit." She muttered as we stepped into the private elevator. "Snails aren't real food."
"You would just order junk food if you could," I said.
"Maybe I will, and don't act like you don't like it as well. I know you like burgers."
Lancelot handed me one of the keycards as the elevator rose smoothly. "Suite 1012. The gentleman assured me it was one of their best."
"He would," I murmured, eyeing the gilded number engraved on the keycard holder.
The elevator chimed, and the doors opened onto a private foyer. Plush carpet, art deco lamps, and a huge double door stood before us. Mordred stormed ahead, throwing the doors open with dramatic flair.
She stepped inside.
Then stopped.
"…What the hell is this?"
I followed her in. The suite was enormous—vaulted ceilings, velvet couches, an actual fireplace flickering with ambient light. And at the far end, down a short hallway lined with marble-topped credenzas…
Two bedrooms.
Each with a massive bed, polished furniture, and luxurious linens.
Mordred turned around slowly, eyes narrowing.
"You got us a two-bedroom suite?"
Lancelot blinked. "Yes. Why wouldn't I?"
"Because I need a bed, and Father needs a bed. And you aren't sleeping with either of us!"
The moment the words left her mouth, the room went silent. Deafeningly so.
Lancelot froze in place, like a deer caught in divine judgment. His mouth opened slightly, then shut again, as if trying to process the accusation.
I sighed. "Mordred—"
"No! Don't 'Mordred' me! This dumbass booked a family suite! With two bedrooms! And didn't even think about what that would look like!"
Lancelot, for his part, looked like he was more hurt than Mordred. He looked horrified at what he had unknowingly done.
He likely hadn't paid that much attention to what things looked like. In his mind, he was just a loyal knight, following his King around.
Now however, he likely realized that he had been mistaken as my lover or husband, and the thought of it horrified him. Not because he thought I was some unlovable monster, but because he felt he was never worthy of such a thing.
After all, his great betrayal of me had indeed been unfaithfulness with Guinevere. So now, being mistaken for my lover, well, it was in his mind, a grave crime and disservice.
I could see the guilt ripple through him like a stone tossed in still water.
"I didn't mean—" Lancelot started, voice tight. "I only thought… space would be useful."
"Useful for who?" Mordred snapped, jabbing a finger toward him. "You wanna be useful? Next time ask someone with a brain before you make another mistake like this."
"I just didn't want to make a scene," he murmured, clearly wounded, though trying to hide it behind composure. "I merely took the room offered."
"Oh, you took it all right," she muttered, then flopped onto the nearest couch with exaggerated force. "So why don't you go get another one? Because this one is clearly already full!"
Lancelot stood there, still caught somewhere between mortification and confusion, his gloved hand tightening slightly around the room key. "If you prefer, I'll sleep in the hallway," he offered solemnly.
"That's not the solution," I cut in, rubbing at my temple.
Mordred scoffed. "No, it's not. The solution is to have the adulterer go out there and clean up the misunderstanding and get his sorry French ass a new room for himself!"
Lancelot flinched as if struck, and for a moment, I feared he might actually bow and retreat from the room like a shamed knight banished from court.
"Mordred," I said, voice low with warning. "Enough."
She sat up, still scowling, arms folded. "I'm just saying what we're all thinking."
"You're saying what you're thinking. Loudly. With fire in your eyes."
Lancelot remained rooted near the door, jaw clenched, unable to meet either of our eyes.
I sighed and rose to my feet, brushing past velvet upholstery and gleaming wood to stand between them.
"He made a mistake," I said firmly, "but it wasn't one of betrayal. Not this time. So you don't get to throw that word around like a dagger and expect it not to cut deeper than you understand."
Mordred's expression faltered—just for a second.
"So what? We can't share your bed with you, he just can't!" Mordred quickly regained her fire, because, when it came to me, no man would be worthy of that, and least of all Lancelot.
Lancelot stiffened, the accusation slicing deeper than any blade. He didn't speak—perhaps he couldn't. The weight of old sins pressed on him like the armor he no longer wore, suffocating in its silence.
"Mordred," I said again, quieter now. "That's not what's happening here."
"It better not be," she growled, refusing to look away. "He also isn't sharing my bed, which means he's got to go."
"She is right, Your Majesty." Lancelot finally spoke up again. "I have sinned, this is my mistake, and I should solve it; I'm naturally not worthy of sharing your bed."
"I didn't say you were," I replied, voice soft but unyielding. "Nor shall you sleep with Mordred, I wish not to awaken and find you dead. So instead, Mordred shall share my bed with me." I made my decision.
Mordred blinked. "Wait—what?"
"You heard me," I said, already moving toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. "You'll share mine."
Her face twisted in equal parts panic and protest. "But that's weird! I'm not a kid anymore, you know!"
"Mordred," I said, sitting down on the couch, pulling her back down with me, sitting beside me, hand on her shoulder. "You are my child, this is the truth, this is a fact that nothing can change, no one can deny it. You will always be my kid."
Mordred stiffened at the contact, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. Her shoulders tensed beneath my hand, and for a moment, she looked ready to argue again. But then her eyes darted to the side, avoiding mine.
She clearly had no idea how to react, how to respond, what to say when faced with my heartfelt words. She was a deer caught in the headlights, unable to move or speak.
However, Mordred wasn't someone who thought about things, if she couldn't think of what to do, she just wouldn't do it.
"Fine!" She said, Try to shuffle away from me a bit. "I don't care, I'll share your bed, Father, but don't think I will give you the blanket!"
"I wouldn't dream of asking," I said, smiling softly.
She huffed, clearly unsatisfied that I'd managed to win this one without a fight. "And don't try to cuddle me either. I bite."
"I'm well aware."
Lancelot, still standing silently by the door, gave a faint bow. "Then… I shall remain out here. The couch is more than enough."
"No, Sir Lancelot," I said without looking his way. "There's another bed. Take it."
He hesitated, unsure whether that was a command or a courtesy. But I added, "You may not be worthy of sharing mine—but you're not so low as to sleep on the floor."
"…Yes, Your Majesty," he said quietly, and stepped into the second bedroom with the solemn grace of a knight trying to pretend this wasn't the most awkward night of his life.
"As long as he doesn't snore!" Mordred said as she finally rose and ran over to the room service menu. "Now, I'm going to get some food. Do you want something, Father?"
(End of chapter)