I watched as Sir Lancelot stepped forward once more, his poise unshaken, his focus sharp. He breathed once, drew back his bow, and released—the arrow cutting through the wind as if guided by an unseen force before embedding itself dead center once more.
"BEHOLD! THE PARAGON OF CHIVALRY REMAINS UNMATCHED!"
One by one, the knights followed, each refusing to falter:
Sir Gawain, his shot landing perfectly as if blessed by the sun at its peak.
Sir Tristan, his arrow singing through the air, landing effortlessly in the bullseye.
Sir Bedivere, with a smooth, measured draw, striking the mark without hesitation.
Sir Mordred, scoffing at the added distance, loosing his shot with a casual confidence that defied belief, the arrow sinking precisely into the center.
Sir Agravain, ever methodical, calculating the wind and striking without flaw.
Sir Gareth, Sir Kay, Sir Galahad, and Sir Percival, each with absolute precision, making what should have been an impossible shot seem effortless.
Sir Palamedes, Sir Lionel, Sir Bors, Sir Ector, and Sir Lamorak, each in turn, their arrows never faltering, never deviating from their target.
Sir Gaheris, calm and steady, making a perfect shot look as simple as breathing.
Sir Dagonet, ever the performer, shot his arrow while spinning on one foot; his arrow still buried itself in the center of the target without fail.
The crowd's disbelief turned into raucous celebration, chants of "CAMELOT! CAMELOT!" shaking the tournament grounds as the announcers and scribes scrambled to process what they had just seen.
"UNBELIEVABLE! IMPOSSIBLE! YET BEFORE OUR VERY EYES—PERFECTION REPEATED ONCE MORE!" Blessed thundered, his excitement reaching a fever pitch. "AND YET—IT IS STILL NOT ENOUGH! WE GO FURTHER STILL!"
Round after round took place. and before long the targets were beyond the world record for such things. Yet the knights continued to hit center with ease.
It wasn't the most exciting thing to watch, but Blessed kept the crowd entertained. He was a funny guy, I had to admit that much.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING! HOW COULD IT BE THAT EACH AND EVERY SHOT HITS ITS MARK? HOW, YOU ASK, CAN THESE KNIGHTS STARE IMPOSSIBILITY IN THE FACE AND CALL IT COMMONPLACE?!" He let the question hang, his dramatic pause drawing the audience in.
Then, in a conspiratorial whisper that still somehow boomed across the arena, he leaned forward and said, "BECAUSE THEY ARE BLOODY WELL LEGENDS, THAT'S WHY!"
The crowd exploded into laughter, cheers mixing with the sheer joy of witnessing something beyond mortal limits.
I had to chuckle myself. The man had a gift. It wasn't just about calling the shots—he made the spectacle live, made it breathe.
Blessed continued, working up the spectators once more. "BUT WE CANNOT END IT HERE! NO, NO, NO! WE HAVE SEEN THEIR MIGHT—BUT CAN THEY SHOW US SOMETHING TRULY GRAND? SOMETHING UNFORGETTABLE?!"
The event took on a more showmanship feel. Soon it wasn't normal targets they were asked to shoot at. But two of them were paired up, and they would both shoot an arrow. With the goal of one hitting the other.
The craziness quickly got everyone's attention, and even my knights seemed to enjoy that level of playfulness.
The rules were set, and now, the true test of skill and reaction would begin.
One knight would fire first—the guiding arrow. The second would fire after, trying to strike the first arrow mid-flight. Then they would swap roles.
A feat of timing, precision, and instinct—even the slightest mistake would result in failure.
Blessed, practically vibrating with excitement, raised his arms.
"OH, I CAN FEEL IT! CAN YOU FEEL IT?! THIS—THIS IS WHERE MERE MORTALS WOULD TREMBLE! BUT WE ARE NOT WITNESSING MERE MORTALS, ARE WE?! NO! WE WATCH BLOODY LEGENDS!"
The crowd screamed in agreement as the first pairing stepped forward.
Mordred smirked, already relishing the challenge as she pulled her bowstring tight. "I'll go first," she said, even behind the helm, the smirk on her face was clear.
Tristan, calm as ever, merely nodded. "Whenever you're ready."
Mordred fired. The guiding arrow soared, cutting the air in a perfect arc.
Tristan's eyes narrowed. A half-second later, his own arrow followed.
Clang!
The two arrows collided mid-air, wood and steel splintering from the perfect hit.
The crowd erupted.
"MAGNIFICENT! LIKE A STORM CHASING A GALE—THEY STRIKE TRUE!" Blessed bellowed.
Now, they switched roles.
Tristan released his guiding arrow first—smooth, effortless, as if the very wind bent to his will.
Mordred, eyes locked in challenge, fired a heartbeat later.
Another impact mid-air.
Mordred pumped her fist, clearly enjoying herself.
Tristan merely nodded in satisfaction, as if he had expected nothing less.
As the rest of the Knights of the Round Table took their turns, only three others would manage this feat.
The rest—though still hitting the bullseye flawlessly—could not strike an arrow mid-flight.
One by one, their arrows passed by, too fast or too slow to connect with their target.
Each of them still remarkable, but this test demanded something beyond skill—something instinctual.
And then, Agravain stepped forward.
Agravain wasn't known for his finesse. He was a warrior first, a leader, a tactician—but when he drew his bow, there was no hesitation.
Percival fired first, his guiding arrow flying true.
Agravain loosed his own, eyes locked onto its trajectory.
CRACK!
The impact was immediate, undeniable—a perfect strike.
The crowd gasped, then cheered wildly.
Blessed's booming laughter followed.
"HAHAAA! A WARRIOR OF RUTHLESS PRECISION—SIR AGRAVAIN SHOWS THAT STRATEGY AND EXECUTION GO HAND IN HAND!"
The knights switched.
Agravain fired, his shot steady—the kind of deliberate, calculated attack that had won countless battles.
Percival, for all his skill, missed.
His arrow cut the air, but not enough to meet its target.
Agravain simply nodded in silent acknowledgment, stepping back.
Lancelot took his place, ever composed, his reputation already legendary.
He fired first, his arrow flying like a whispering promise.
Gawain followed—and missed.
There was no shame in it, no hesitation, just a slow nod of understanding.
They switched.
Gawain fired, strong, fast.
Lancelot loosed his arrow just after—and with a perfect, unshakable hit, struck it down.
The crowd's cheers redoubled.
Blessed clapped his hands together with a thunderous echo.
"HAHAAA! THE GREATEST KNIGHT, THE UNBREAKABLE LANCELOT—STILL UNMATCHED IN HIS ART!"
Lancelot gave a small, knowing smile before stepping back.
Blessed let the moment simmer, the realization settling into the audience before his voice shattered the silence.
"FOUR REMAIN! FOUR STAND ABOVE ALL IN THIS TEST OF THE BOW! BUT THE NIGHT IS YOUNG, THE CHALLENGES FAR FROM OVER! WILL THEY PROVE THEMSELVES YET AGAIN? OR WILL ANOTHER RISE TO MEET THEM?!"
He threw an arm up toward the royal balcony.
"ONLY OUR KING CAN DECIDE WHAT COMES NEXT!"
All eyes turned to me.
I let the anticipation hang for just a moment, then stepped forward, gripping the railing.
"Then let us see what true mastery looks like," I declared, my voice carrying across the arena.
I turned my gaze to Tristan.
"You are the greatest archer among us, Sir Tristan. The other three shall each shoot at once, and you will hit all three arrows, if they believe they have managed as well, let them try."
Tristan lifted his gaze, his expression calm, unreadable. He gave a slow nod. "As you will it, Your Majesty."
The crowd erupted once more, the challenge unprecedented. It was one thing to strike a moving arrow—another entirely to hit three at once.
Blessed, ever the showman, let out a booming laugh.
"BY THE GODS! A TEST WORTHY OF LEGENDS! THREE ARROWS IN FLIGHT—AND ONE MAN, ONE ARROW TO STRIKE THEM ALL!"
He clapped his hands together, eyes gleaming with anticipation. "AND SHOULD ANY OF OUR OTHER THREE CHAMPIONS THINK THEMSELVES EQUAL TO THIS TASK—LET THEM PROVE IT BEFORE US ALL!"
Mordred, Agravain, and Lancelot stepped forward, none of them willing to back down from a challenge.
Their confidence was expected. Their skill was undeniable.
But Tristan was different.
The three knights moved into position. Each one stood at a different angle, giving no possible way for Tristan to predict their flight paths with ease.
Mordred grinned. "Hope you're ready for this, Tristan."
Lancelot nodded, polished and composed as ever. "Let us see if you truly live up to your name."
Agravain simply set his stance, his usual silence carrying an air of determination.
Tristan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. His eyes flicked toward the targets they were about to create.
The signal was given.
Mordred fired first, her shot bold and fast.
Agravain followed immediately, his arrow a precise, lethal strike.
Lancelot waited just a moment longer before loosing his own, creating a staggered formation—one that should have been impossible to predict.
Three arrows, from three different masters, at three different angles.
And then came Tristan.
He treated his bow like a harp, his fingers dancing across the multiple strings.
CRACK!
Mordred's arrow splintered in midair.
Before the fragments even had time to fall, Agravain's arrow was gone, destroyed by his shot.
Lancelot's arrow was still flying, and then, it just wasn't.
The impact was so clean, so precise, that for a moment, it looked like nothing had happened—until Lancelot's arrow, neatly severed at the shaft, fell to the ground in two pieces.
Silence.
For a heartbeat, the tournament stood still.
No cheers, no gasps, nothing.
Then, Blessed exploded.
"HAHAAAAAAA! BY ALL THE HEAVENS! BY ALL THE GODS! TRISTAN! SIR TRISTAN! MASTER OF THE BOW! HE STANDS ALONE AT THE PINNACLE OF ARCHERY!"
The crowd roared, voices shaking the very ground beneath us.
Even my knights, undeniable warriors in their own right, looked on in silent acknowledgment. Tristan had done what no one else could.
Lancelot gave a small nod of respect before stepping back.
Agravain clenched his fists but said nothing—accepting the outcome.
Mordred, not one to easily accept defeat, still had to accept that even he couldn't do that. And kicked the ground in annoyance. "Damn, Tristan. That was ridiculous."
Tristan merely lowered his bow, silent as ever, his expression unreadable.
I stood, letting the cheers settle before raising a hand.
"The truth was already known, but now it is witnessed. Sir Tristan, the finest archer of the Round Table. Let there be no doubt."
The crowd erupted once more, Tristan's name chanted over and over.
I turned toward Mordred, Lancelot, and Agravain.
"You have shown great skill. But this was Tristan's domain. Perhaps the next event will be yours." I let a small smile tug at the corner of my lips.
Mordred scoffed, rolling her shoulders. "Just wait 'til we get to something that doesn't involve bows."
Agravain merely bowed his head.
Lancelot, as always, simply smiled.
The archery trial was over.
And the tournament was just beginning.
As the last arrow struck true and the cheers rang through Camelot's hallowed tournament grounds, I raised a gauntleted hand, calling for silence.
"The bow has had its time," I declared, my voice carrying over the thousands in attendance. "Now, we turn to the weapon of the true warrior—the lance!"
(chapter end)
Done with shooting arrows for now. We all knew who should win, I'm not sure if Mordred should have been among the last few, but I dare say it was more luck then anything else that allowed that.