I drew in a slow, measured breath through my nose, forcing the cold forest air deep into my lungs while I consciously relaxed the tension that had gathered in my shoulders. Every instinct screamed at me to lash out, to let my magic surge forward and show this sneering fool exactly what kind of power flowed through these common veins. But that was exactly what Agravaine wanted—a reaction that would compromise my mission or, at the very least, give him ammunition to use against me later.
Instead, I carefully arranged my features into a mask of calm indifference. I wouldn't give Agravaine the satisfaction of seeing he'd struck a nerve; I wouldn't let him bait me into saying or doing something I'd regret later. Instead, I held his pale green gaze steadily, refusing to be the first to look away, even as I felt the weight of every other knight's attention pressing down on me.
"Why don't you speak less and focus on the tasks at hand, Agravaine?" Gawain said, glaring at the man.
"There is a camp to be made and a kill to be skinned," Gareth put in.
Tristan nodded. "We are wasting valuable time."
But Agravaine wasn't finished with me yet. And when he delivered his next strike, he leaned down even further in the saddle, so we were almost at eye level. “No noble house to speak of, no family name worth mentioning. No titles, no renown. I’d wager Lioran can’t even trace his blood back beyond the peasant fields.”
I looked him dead in the eyes. I'd had enough. “Aye, the peasant fields. That’s where I met your mother, in fact. Lovely woman. Very…accommodating.”
The laugh started somewhere just beyond Gawain, a soft chuckle that quickly snowballed into a chorus of snickers and guffaws from the other knights. Gareth snorted into his gauntlet, trying to stifle the noise, as Percival guffawed shamelessly. Even Kay allowed a flicker of amusement to tug at his lips, though his glare promised it would be short-lived.
Agravaine’s face turned a mottled shade of red, anger boiling beneath his skin. He tightened his grip on the reins, the leather creaking ominously. His voice cut through the laughter, chilling in its warning. "Watch your words, filthy commoner."
I kept my expression neutral, even as I felt the heat rising in my chest. Shade shifted beside me, her understanding gaze grounding me amidst the provocation.
Gawain’s eyes darted between us, heavy with unspoken caution. Percival remained silent, his stance unwavering but his presence comforting. Gareth cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.
“Seems your origins are even humbler than your skills, Lioran,” Kay said.
A smirk played at Agravaine's lips. "I hope you find comfort in obscurity, for it's all that awaits."
Before I could summon a retort, Lancelot encouraged his black steed forward until Nero was side by side with Gawain. Then he dismounted and stepped right in front of me, his broad shoulders shadowing Agravaine and Kay. “Enough.”
Agravaine opened his mouth, but Lancelot silenced him with a glare that could cut through steel itself. “Nobility isn’t bound by bloodlines,” he spat the words at Agravaine. "As knights, honor compels more than lineage.”
The measured weight of his words settled over the clearing, drawing quiet respect from some—like Percival, Galahad, Tristan, Gawain, and Gareth—and uneasy acknowledgment from the rest.
Agravaine gave me another glare. “Perhaps next time, Lioran will remember his place in the order of things.”
I watched as anger stiffened Lancelot's entire frame, every muscle in his broad shoulders coiling. The enormous knight took a deliberate step forward. Despite Agravaine remaining seated high atop his destrier, Lancelot's commanding presence somehow made the mounted man appear diminished—as if the sheer force of Lancelot's kindled fury could reduce even an armed cavalier to nothing more than a cowering child.
I moved to the side slightly so I could get a better look and noticed how Lancelot's dark eyes blazed with a cold fire that promised swift and brutal retribution. Even from my position beside Shade, I could feel the dangerous energy radiating from Arthur's champion, a barely leashed predator sizing up prey that had dared to overstep its bounds.
"Were you wise, Agravaine, you'd silence your fucking tongue."
At that, Percival looked at me with eyes wide in obvious shock, and I returned the expression.
Then Lancelot glanced at Kay. "And you, Kay, do you have anything more you'd like to say?"
"No," he replied, lifting his palms in surrender—something I was certain infuriated him, because I didn't imagine Kay was a man who enjoyed being put in his place.
No one made a sound. The silence stretched taut until Lancelot spoke again, spearing each of us with his perturbed expression. "The hunt ends with a kill. Make camp. We won’t reach Camelot before dark, and I do not want to risk the horses stumbling.”
-GUIN-
The thought of maintaining my Lioran disguise through the night settled like lead in my stomach.
Merlin's warnings echoed through my mind—warnings about keeping the disguise too long, about the magic weaving itself too deep. Ten hours at a stretch was my limit before the illusion began to fray at the edges, before it started feeling less like a mask and more like skin.
And given that I'd played the part of Lioran all day, a full night in camp would push that boundary well past safety.
I could already feel the strain building behind my eyes, a dull pressure that would only worsen as the hours stretched on. What if the spell warped? What if I woke with Lioran's strong jaw permanently grafted onto my features, or his broader shoulders locked in place while everything else shifted back?
Half-man, half-woman. A grotesque fusion that would expose me faster than any bloodwork Kay might attempt.
