If I hadn’t fully realized it before, the truth crystallized now: Percival possessed a goodness rare in Camelot. A quiet, incorruptible light. Where other knights wore chivalry like polished armor, heembodiedit—unbowed by politics, untouched by the rot beneath Camelot’s golden façade. Perhaps he was the only truly honorable man among us.
“You gave the stag dignity,” he said as he offered me a small smile. “Agravaine would’ve made a show of its death. And power without compassion is just cruelty in armor.”
Around us, laughter rose—loud, crude, careless. The day’s suffering had vanished from their minds, replaced by the glory of the kill and the promise of roasted venison. Their laughter echoed through the trees, drowning out the rustle of leaves, the hush of birds settling into the evening.
But not all joined in.
There was a small berth around Tristan—something that was becoming a habit, no doubt because the others feared his necromancy. Even now, as he sat on a fallen log near the fire's edge, the space around him remained conspicuously empty. The nearest knight, Balan, sat a full arm's length away, as if death itself might be contagious.
I watched Tristan from across the clearing, noting how he seemed unbothered by the isolation. His fingers moved with grace as he cleaned his blade, the firelight catching the olive tones of his skin, making his lovely features appear even more exotic. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he worked—methodical, deliberate, as if the simple act of maintaining his weapon held deeper meaning.
As for what I thought of his abilities, I found them fascinating rather than frightening. I'd never known someone with death magic before, never witnessed the way shadows seemed to bend toward him even in bright daylight, or how the air around him carried a subtle chill that spoke of his otherworldly power. Where others saw something to fear, I saw a kindred spirit—another wielder of magic that others couldn't understand, magic that demanded as much as it gave.
Gawain, too, stood apart, methodically cleaning his blade, his brother never far from him. In fact, the two might as well have been joined at the hip. But I liked that—I didn't know why, but I liked the fact that they were as close as they were. Perhaps because I'd never had siblings. And now I didn't have a family at all.
Regardless, Gawain's face remained stoic, but now and then his gaze drifted, a flicker of regret passing before he masked it again. Galahad leaned against an oak tree beside the brothers, fingers absently tracing the cross on his scabbard, silent and still.
And Lancelot—ever the enigma—had removed himself entirely. At the edge of the clearing, he brushed Nero with deliberate focus, each stroke slow and careful. Whether he disdained the revelry or was lost in some private contemplation, I couldn’t say. But his silence said enough.
“Does it hurt you?” I asked, turning back to Percival. “To carry all that pain?”
His smile was small and worn. “Yes. But I’ve learned to bear it.” He glanced toward the others. “They call it weakness. Agravaine once told me I’d make a better nursemaid than knight.”
“And yet you’ve survived trials that broke other men.”
“Perhaps because I don’t resist it,” he murmured. “I let the pain move through me. Like water carving stone.”
I nodded slowly. “Water and pain—both find their way through anything eventually. No matter how strong the dam, they both find the cracks.”
Percival nodded, his eyes reflecting the flickering firelight as he looked over at me with a small smile. “Though sometimes I wonder if my gift comes not from blood but from something else entirely.”
"What do you mean?"
A shadow crossed his face then, erasing the usual warmth and replacing it with something tired. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I have memories that can’t possibly be mine.”
Surprised, I leaned in slightly. “What kind of memories?”
He hesitated, scanning the camp, clearly afraid of being overheard. When he spoke again, his voice was lower than it had been, almost a whisper. I had to lean in to fully hear him. "Vivid scenes from other ages. Faces I’ve never known. Battlefields littered with warriors wielding weapons no longer forged. Castles now crumbled to dust—castles that were once proud and whole. Sacred vessels, the list goes on." He inhaled deeply, then continued, “I remember dying—more than once. A spear through my ribs. A sword at my throat. The moment the world dims, the blood drains, the cold sets in.” He shook his head, running a hand through his straw-colored hair. “The court physician says they’re nothing but dreams. Or too many bard songs, too much ale." Then he looked directly at me. "But theyfeelreal, Lioran. As real as the pain I carry. As real as this earth beneath us.”
My heartbeat quickened.
Merlin had spoken of such things.
Memory-bearers—souls that returned again and again, fragments of ancient purpose clinging to them like mist. He’d claimed such people were rare.
“Do you think me mad?” Percival asked, mistaking my silence for doubt.
“No. I think this world holds more mysteries than most care to admit.” I paused. “No—I don’t think you’re mad at all.”
He studied me, firelight glinting in his eyes. “You don’t seem surprised by what I've said.”
I weighed my words. “In the borderlands, there are stories—of souls reborn, souls carrying old truths in new vessels.”
Percival nodded as if my words made sense to him. "Sometimes I see a king. Wounded. Dying. His land rots as he suffers. Other times… a woman rises from the water, offering something radiant—some type of object that I can't quite see, but I know it's important, all the same. Salvation—just out of reach.”
My breath caught.
The image struck too close.
