A woman rising from water.
Could he be describing the Lady of the Lake? And was the object he couldn't see Excalibur? The coincidence felt too exact to ignore. Percival's fragmented memories—visions of a king in decline—could they be echoing Arthur’s legacy?
I wanted to press him. Ask what else he’d seen. But movement caught my eye. When I turned to see what it was, I immediately recognized Lancelot. He was watching us from the edge of the firelight, his expression unreadable. A moment later, he approached with that easy stride that seemed to mark him as untouchable by doubt or hesitation, and I immediately straightened, still a little on edge from what Percival had revealed to me.
"Lioran." He stopped beside the fire, his sharp gaze flicking briefly toward Percival as he quickly nodded his head in greeting, though his focus remained squarely on me. "Pay no mind to the words Agravaine spoke."
I hadn't realized I'd tensed, but I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax, nodding as though his words could make it so.
"Being lowborn appears to have made me their favorite target."
Lancelot's expression was understanding rather than pitying—a nuance that mattered more than I would have expected. He glanced toward the men gathered around the fire, his lips twisting in slight disdain. When he spoke again, his voice softened, gentler now.
“Those born with silver spoons in their mouths have never known what it means to strive for recognition. They believe themselves deserving of titles and allegiance, blinded to the true strength of those who fight for what they earn.”
Percival and I both nodded.
Lancelot looked right at me when he continued. "Such a childhood raises you to be a stronger knight, one who understands the value of hard-won power. Agravaine and Kay—they'll never understand that strength." He looked back at the rest of them. "None of them will."
"Well said," Percival commented.
Lancelot's gaze found mine again. “Ambition is a steed best ridden with humility, not vanity."
I smiled, surprised and encouraged by Lancelot's words. I hadn't realized he possessed this depth of character beneath his reputation as Arthur's most fearsome knight. Yet, the sincerity in his dark eyes caught me off guard. Most knights looked through me or past me, seeing only the lowborn man who dared claim a seat at their table. But Lancelot saw something else entirely—potential, perhaps, or kinship forged in the fires of adversity. His words carried the ring of personal experience, since he too had clawed his way up from circumstances that demanded more than mere existence.
A small nod from Percival, understanding and approving, coupled with that lingering, thoughtful gaze from Lancelot—two unexpected breaths of genuine humanity that I hadn't realized I needed. In this place where every conversation felt like walking across thin ice, where each word could expose the lie I lived, these moments of authentic connection were precious beyond measure.
"So hold your ground, Lioran,” Lancelot urged. “You’re forged from fire, not privilege. Your strength isn’t wrapped in gold but something far more valuable."
"Thank you," I answered, and I truly meant it.
He nodded and glanced back at the others. "Now, join the others before they think the two of you are plotting your revenge.”
Percival chuckled. “Knights are a suspicious lot. Linger too long apart, and they assume you’re conspiring or confessing some terrible sin.”
“And which are we doing?” I asked with a smile.
“Maybe both,” he responded, standing. "Though I imagine everyone here has secrets worth keeping.”
Lancelot nodded. "On that, you would be correct."
We returned to the fire, where the mood was still one of revelry. A flask of amber spirit—stronger than wine—was making the rounds, loosening tongues and brightening eyes. Boasts flew faster than arrows now, stories growing more outrageous by the minute.
Agravaine was mid-performance, describing how he once felled a monstrous boar “with tusks as long as a man’s forearm,” wielding only a knife after his bowstring snapped. He pantomimed the final blow, eyes flashing with theatrical flair. His audience roared with laughter, caught somewhere between belief and indulgence.
I sank into my role—legs stretched toward the fire, shoulders relaxed but not slouched. I laughed when expected, raised my brows at the more impossible claims, and exchanged silent, knowing glances with the level-headed few who recognized the tales for what they were.
I became the mask again.
But inside, I carried too much.
Percival’s voice still echoed beneath my ribs.
A wounded king. A woman rising from the water.
And a knight doomed to remember.
When the flask reached me, I took a measured sip, careful not to flinch at the burn. When the others pressed for a tale, I offered a modest one—tracking a mountain cat through knee-deep snow in the far northern reaches of Fenwick Vale. I kept it simple. No heroics. Just patience, cold, and a clean kill. The kind of story that earned quiet respect, not attention.
