I am Mordred, rightful King of Britain and lord of Camelot. And I have made a grievous error.
Only my own eyes shall ever read these words, so for once let it be written with truth and—dare I suggest it? Humility. A king might lie deceive an enemy with lies. He should not do this to himself. Thus, I pen this chronicle of this dark time.
I grew tired of mother’s games, her trifling plans to remove father from Camelot. She never managed the test I sought, the battle against father on the field. Thus, I went in search of my own allies, and in the Fae I found many willing to take up arms against Arthur and his meddling knights.
Yet the journey between worlds is too long for a coherent force to attempt. I found a solution. A spell. An evocation to hasten their arrival. A powerful glamour, and alas, beyond my ability. I should not have attempted it. Humility, Mordred, mark it well.
It should have brought our worlds closer in one small region. And it did, but in the worst way. Britain and the Fae realm merged into a land of chaos and madness.
And it is spreading.
No lamentation. No apologies. I made my play, and it failed. Ironically, father and his knights might be best suited to repair my error. Yet father is missing.
Old Merlin once said the King and the Land are one. How literal was that? Did my spell cause his disappearance? If so, that’s not what I wanted. When I destroy Arthur, it will be on the field through strength of arms, not through magic.
But for that to happen, I must right this mistake. With father gone, many factions, both mortal and Fae, now march to battle. I guess I got my war.
I care not who wins, only that the ultimate victor swears fealty to me and march beneath my banner. Mother and Merlin seek much the same, I hear. A contest of will then. So be it.
I am Mordred, rightful King of Britain. And I am ready.