Gawain, at least, was straightforward—loyal, strong, predictable. As was his brother, Gareth. Both from the well-known Orkney clan, they came from the western reaches of Logres. As was true of the West, the brothers placed importance on functionality and subtlety rather than showiness. I approved of them both.
As I did with the rest of the knights remaining. They were either known to me by reputation or family or known to Arthur. The point being—they were known quantities.
But Tristan and Lioran?
Complete unknowns.
My brush stilled against Nero's shoulder. Both Tristan and Lioran had appeared from nowhere, with no connections to Camelot's noble houses, no shared history with Arthur's inner circle. Tristan, with his exotic features and that death magic that made all around him uncomfortable. And Lioran, with his ice sculptures and those unsettling eyes that seemed to see too much.
Strangers in Arthur's hall. Strangers with considerable power.
My thoughts regarding Lioran hadn't changed—even if he was magically powerful, he still did not bear the physique necessary to be a knight. Were he to face another man in battle, he would be cut down. And if he served under my command, I would perpetually fret about his inadequacy in combat and find myself protecting him—a situation far from desirable. No, a knight needed to be able to defend himself. Further proof was Agravaine's tendency to want to pick on the knight. It wasan example that would continue, I was afraid. The bigger and stronger always seeking out the weaker.
That did not mean I condoned such behavior. The way Agravaine had deliberately sought to humiliate Lioran during our hunt, targeting him with unnecessary and sneering comments about his low birth—well, that had upset me more than I wanted to admit. Such conduct went against everything I believed about knightly honor, regardless of my reservations about Lioran's combat readiness.
In truth, it sickened me. All the constant jabs about differences in birth rankled against my sense of justice. A man's worth should only be measured by his actions and character, not the circumstances of his parentage. I'd seen nobles born to privilege who couldn't hold a sword, and common-born fighters who could best any knight in single combat, myself included.
The truth of the matter was that Agravaine's bullying revealed more about his own insecurities than any perceived weakness in his target. A truly strong man had no need to prey upon those he deemed lesser—such behavior was the mark of a coward hiding behind his position and connections.
I returned to brushing Nero with long, methodical strokes, but my thoughts remained fixed on Lioran.
Throughout the hunt, I had caught him watching me. Not the casual observation of knights sizing each other up for combat, but something more intent. His gaze had lingered on my hands as I drew my bow, tracked the movement of my shoulders when I dismounted Nero. Each time I glanced in his direction, those strange pale eyes had been there—studying, assessing, watching.
But it was more than just that casual observation between warriors. Within Lioran's gaze resided something I recognized all too well—unveiled want. Desire.
I had seen that look countless times before—in the eyes of noble ladies at court functions, serving girls in darkened corridors, courtesans, even the occasional merchant's wife when I had traveled on Arthur's business. The slight parting of lips, the way their gazes would trace the line of my shoulders or linger on my lips. I knew desire when I saw it; I had learned to read its subtle signs with the same focus I brought to reading an opponent's sword work.
Yes, it was desire, pure and simple. And that realization settled in my gut like a boulder.
Perhaps Lioran preferred men?
The thought didn't shock me. I had spent enough years in military camps and court to know such appetites existed. What bothered me was the possibility that he had set his sights on me specifically. I had seen how he kept company—only with Percival, really, or wandering Camelot's halls alone. Never joining the other knights when they sought entertainment among the castle's ladies. Never glancing at the serving girls who had been eyeing the new arrivals with obvious interest, Lioran included.
Of course, I had noticed Elenora's interest in him. Did that bother me? No, I was not a jealous man. In fact, I had shared a woman on more than one occasion with Arthur.
But Lioran?
My jaw tightened.
If Lioran harbored expectations in my direction, he would find himself disappointed. My appetite had always and would always exclusively include the softer sex, and I had indulged it thoroughly over the years. More than thoroughly, if I was honest with myself.
Still, Lioran's fascination with me remained peculiar. Unnerving, even.
I moved to Nero's other side, working the brush through his mane. Beyond the matter of his preferences, I could not get past the fact that Lioran simply did not fit the mold of a knight. Yes, he possessed magic—surviving the Summoning and the Labyrinth had proven that—but magic alone would not save him if blades met in earnest combat. Pair him against someone of equal magical strength, and it would come down to pure sword work or brawn.
He wouldn't last five minutes against Agravaine's calculated brutality. Galahad would break him in half with righteous efficiency. Even Percival, for all his awkwardness, possessed the raw physical strength Lioran clearly lacked. And were he to find himself against me in battle, I could simply breathe on him, and he'd blow over.
The problem was that Lioran was entirely too feminine. Truly, he was the most feminine man I'd ever met. Dress him in a gown, grow his hair longer, and he could pass for a woman without difficulty. I would even wager he'd be a beautiful one.
He was just too small, too weak, to be a knight of Arthur's Round Table. Truly, I didn't understand why Lioran was even still in the running. But Arthur wanted to allow him to prove himself. So, here we were.
I shook my head, forcing my attention back to Nero, back to the familiar rhythm of grooming that usually brought clarity of mind. But my thoughts refused to settle. They continued to circle back to Lioran and the expression in his eyes when he looked at me.
Think of something or someone else, for fuck's sake!I yelled at myself.
My thoughts then returned to something else that had been bothering me: Arthur's story regarding the girl who had apparently pulled Excalibur from the stone. The one who had vanished before Arthur could secure her, leaving him withnothing but a phantom who was now haunting him night and day.
Equally disturbing was Arthur's mention of the dragon's growing influence—how its alien thoughts were beginning to weave themselves through his own like poisonous threads. The way he had spoken of it, so matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather rather than his own gradual dissolution of self, was concerning.
