Tristan, who was far ahead, called out about discovering a clearing perfect for establishing our camp. The remaining knights answered with eager agreement.
I swallowed hard and urged Shade forward, already calculating how little sleep I could manage while stealing moments to let my disguise slip, just enough to keep from losing myself entirely.
The clearing opened before us, ringed by ancient oaks. Agravaine dismounted with the practiced ease of a man who had made camp in worse places, already barking orders tohis squire—a gangly boy named Willem who moved nervously. Considering his master's temperament, I couldn't fault him.
I slid from Shade's back, my thighs protesting from the long ride. Behind us, the packhorse train emerged from the trees, laden with canvas bundles and iron cookware that clanged with each plodding step. Two hunting dogs loped alongside them, tongues lolling, already nosing through the underbrush for game trails.
When he struggled with it, I moved to help Willem wrestle a rolled canvas from one of the packhorses. The boy shot me a grateful look as we dragged it to the designated spot. Around us, servants materialized from the group—three men and a woman. They worked with the silent synchronization of people who had done this countless times, driving stakes into earth still soft from recent rain.
With Percival and the Orkney brothers' help, the largest tents went up first, positioned at the clearing's center. Numerous smaller ones followed, one for each knight, then bedrolls for the servants near the fire pit taking shape from gathered stones.
One of the dogs returned with a hare clamped in its jaws, tail wagging with pride. A grizzled servant took it without comment, already reaching for a skinning knife tucked in his belt.
"Sir Lioran knows how to pitch a proper tent, I see," Agravaine remarked from behind me.
I drove another stake home, not turning. "One learns quickly when the alternative is sleeping under the rain."
As for Agravaine's barbed remarks, I’d deliberately shoved them into the darkest corners of my mind where they belonged. Those words—designed to draw blood—had found their marks, for whether I was Lioran or I was Guinevere, I was still low-born. And despite my best efforts to banish all thoughts of the earlier confrontation, one moment kept resurfacing with stubborn persistence: Lancelot stepping forward, his voicecutting through their mockery, defending me when he had no obligation to do so.
The way he’d positioned himself slightly in front of me was a subtle but unmistakable shield. His presence had instantly shifted the dynamic, reminding everyone present exactly who commanded respect in Arthur’s court.
That single act of unexpected involvement haunted me more than any insult could have. The memory of it lingered like an echo, replaying itself with maddening frequency despite my efforts to focus on the present task. Arthur's most feared knight—a man whose reputation preceded him into every room, whose presence commanded instant deference—had chosen to shield me from mockery without hesitation or calculation.
It wasn't gratitude that churned in my chest—gratitude would have been simpler, cleaner. This was something different, something I'd never felt before: the treacherous warmth of feeling protected, of mattering enough to someone that they would risk their own standing to defend mine. And, of course, I knew Lioran didn't matter to Lancelot. Were I disqualified from the Trials tomorrow, he would not bat an eye. We were nothing to one another, and I understood that. Yet his gesture of protection struck me all the same.
The knights fell into their usual patterns: Agravaine and Kay brooding, Lancelot at the center of the clearing, commanding everyone’s attention and respect, and younger squires gathering around older warriors, eager for their tales of war. I kept my distance, as always.
Dusk filtered through the trees as Gareth and Gawain took it upon themselves to process the stag. Gareth excised the heart, and the dogs circled closer, drawn by the scent of warm blood, but kept at bay by Gawain’s low growl. Then the hide came free, revealing muscle and sinew beneath. Soon sinew bled away from bone, each section neatly severed. Once the animal had beenbutchered, they began laying cuts of meat over the fire. Soon the clearing filled with the scent of roasting venison and wood smoke. The mood shifted. Wineskins passed from hand to hand. Laughter rose. Stories grew louder, wilder.
And I watched it all from the edge of the firelight, nursing my own cup of ale while remaining carefully positioned in the shadows. The amber glow painted faces in shifting light and darkness, transforming familiar features into something almost mythical. Men who had seemed ordinary in daylight now appeared as heroes from ancient tales, their scars catching the firelight like badges of honor.
I couldn't help but notice how my gaze seemed eager to return to Lancelot with an almost magnetic persistence. Perhaps it wasn't such a surprise—the knight was legendary throughout the realm, not only for his unmatched ability with sword and shield but also for his devastating masculine beauty. As I watched him now, his dark hair caught the firelight when he cocked his head, listening to Galahad wax poetic about something. I found myself studying the strong line of his throat, the way shadows played across his angular features. Even seated casually among his brothers-in-arms, he commanded attention without effort.
As far as I could tell from the festivals and tournaments we had attended thus far, Lancelot never wanted for a bedmate at the end of each evening's revelries. Noble ladies and courtesans alike were drawn to him like moths to a flame, and he accepted their attentions with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to being desired. I had witnessed the subtle exchanges—meaningful glances across crowded halls, whispered invitations, and the way women seemed to find excuses to brush against his arm or seek his attention.
When his gaze found mine, I immediately looked away—and directly at Percival, who sat apart from the rest of usbeneath an ancient oak. Of all the knights, Percival had been the kindest to me. That compassion drew me to seek his company. I approached him, and he looked up, surprised—no doubt at the fact that I was initiating conversation when usually it was the other way around.
When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost kind. “What you did for the stag—it speaks highly of your character.”
I hesitated because I didn't want his praise. I did what should have been done. “Every creature deserves dignity in death, especially when the pain was inflicted for sport.”
"Have a seat," he said and motioned to the ground beside him. I did as instructed, and then Percival nodded slowly and breathed out a sigh. His eyes drifted half-shut, a faint line creasing his brow as if he were in pain.
“You felt the stag’s death, didn’t you?"
He was quiet for a beat, as if deciding how much to reveal. Then: “I followed you,” he admitted. “After you left the others. I saw what you did. I didn’t announce myself... I suppose I was moved by how gently you handled the beast.”
I froze.
If he had followed me—if he had heard my true voice—then he would know Lioran was not what he appeared. But Percival gave no sign of knowing or even suspecting. No sharp questions. No narrowed eyes. He just... looked at me like I was exactly who I claimed to be. Hmm, maybe he hadn't witnessed everything.
He sighed. “And yes. I feel everything. It’s both a gift and a curse—especially when I can't heal myself.”
He stared into the darkening woods then, and I felt for him. What good was a gift if you couldn't even use it to help yourself?
I thought of my own water magic—how it sometimes overwhelmed me. The way pressure built until I could barely separate my thoughts from the water’s voice. Like Percival’s gift, mine didn’t always serve me—itdemanded. It was terrifyingand exhilarating all at once—being bothmyselfand something elemental, a vessel for a power that didn’t ask permission.
“People rarely notice,” he added. “When I take their pain. They’re too relieved to realize it becomes mine.”
