“It ended with her blade at her throat, your grace.” Arthur responded honestly. “And a pair of extremely confused Kidemónes. To her credit, Lady Circe was an excellent opponent—” he gave a nod to the heiress, who smiled at him in thanks “—but I have been extensively trained in unarmed combat since my early years.”

The look Daphne gave him at that admission was a mix between curious and suspicious.

“And you only disarmed her?” Menelaus asked carefully.

“I did not take any liberties with your daughter, my lord, if that is your concern.” Arthur said firmly.

“As if any man could!” Circe said indignantly. “He only pinned me because—”

“That is enough, Circe.” Menelaus commanded, to which the heiress grimaced.

“I intended no offense, your grace.” Arthur said more confidently than he immediately felt, especially with Atreus staring at him. “But I did not ascertain her identity until after I put her on her back.”

Several moments passed after that statement, and Arthur’s eyes widened.

“Uh. I didn’t mean—!”

Atreus snorted.

“We know what you meant, boy.”

“Indeed.” Menelaus said with what Arthur recognized as the ghost of a smile, though the patrician’s features were not without weighted consideration while watching him. “I am not sure how to satisfy this debt of honor, in truth. I cannot think of an adequate form of repayment to ask for, given the gravity of the situation.”

Arthur grimaced.

“Whatever you feel is necessary, my lord. I did not intend to breach your—”

“You mistake me, Ser Arthur.” Menelaus cut in firmly, but not impolitely. “It is not your debt of honor, but my own—through my daughter, perhaps, but mine regardless. You are our guest, and the sacred tradition of our hospitality was violated.”

“Father, it was not like—”

“Circe,” Menelaus continued with a hard look at his daughter, who fell silent once again and bit her lip. “Is a very spirited young woman. Most women in their mid-thirties are, given they are only a few short years into the prime of their lives. I would wager you are no different, Ser Arthur.”

“I cannot say I am entirely very different, no.” Arthur admitted.

Circe glanced at him with relief at his words.

Menelaus nodded in approval. “Then I hope we can move past this, in time.”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“I don’t see her actions as worthy of a fuss, my lord.” Arthur said simply. “She only did what she thought was right, poor execution or not. I have no need to press a grievance against her. She has been a welcome companion in the short time we have spent together today.”

Menelaus observed him with a weighing and thoughtful gaze, and Arthur was starkly reminded of the fact the Lion Duke was easily into his twelfth decade of life. For all that he looked barely a day over forty, the subtle laugh lines and streaks of gray in his platinum hair told the truth of his age. He might have had a long way to go, but he was definitely past his first century.

It was very easy to forget, sometimes, given how well the truly elite aged.

“Your words are kind, Ser Arthur, and do your honor credit. Still, there is a debt here to be paid. How that will be done, I am not yet certain. I will think on it.”

“If I come up with anything, your grace, I will let you know.” Arthur said in kind.

“Good.” Menelaus responded with a smile. “I would appreciate that, Ser Arthur.”

“Does that mean you aren’t angry, father?” Circe asked carefully.

“You violated our hospitality, Circe.” Menelaus said sternly while looking at her.

“I thought it would be the best way to test his preparedness for assassins!”

“Without consulting me, or even Daphne. How do you think your stunt might have made our Lion Guard look, had it gone awry?”

“I would not have let that happen.” Circe insisted with a guilty glance at Daphne.

“You are the pride of my life, Circe, but gods help me if you aren’t three times as impulsive and five times as brash as your darling mother ever was.” Menelaus proclaimed with a father’s frustration. “You seem to have inherited her personality entirely, with no temperance from my own.”

“Not entirely true.” Atreus cut in with a casual tone Arthur had never heard prior. “You were every bit the overproud idiot she is now when you were her age, Sword Saint Menelaus.”

Everyone gathered, including Arthur, widened their eyes at Atreus’ words.

Menelaus, for his part, simply stared at the Myrmidón—and then laughed abruptly.

“Very well.” the Duke said, in a concessional voice still filled with mirth, while turning to look at Circe. “I admit, perhaps you inherited some of it from me.”

Arthur watched Circe’s expression shift slowly from embarrassment to something more akin to a wary hope, and Menelaus stepped closer to her when it did. While those present watched, Menelaus lifted his right hand to gently knock his knuckles against her forehead.

Her eyes rose to watch his hand without fear, her nose scrunched at his tap, and then she looked once again into her father’s eyes. As close as they were, the height difference was barely noticeable. Circe was very tall for a woman.

Powerfully built, with muscles as defined as her curves were generous.

It amazed Arthur still that someone so beautiful existed outside of the Core.

It defied everything his memories as Zacaris had instilled in him about genetic elitism.

Arthur couldn’t help but smile wryly at the interaction after the gentle knock to her forehead. Menelaus and Circe’s relationship was… easy. Warm. Natural. It was a true parent and child relationship in the healthiest way.

One he had never personally known.

If Uther had approached him that way, Arthur would have steeled himself for a broken jaw at the least. His father had never believed in anything other than a firm hand, his memories readily reminded him.

“Next time,” Menelaus said fondly, “please use your better judgment.”

“Nai bampá.” Circe murmured with a chagrined smile.