From the corner of my eye, I saw Arthur leaning forward on his throne, his expression one of interest. He studied me as someone might a bizarre and foreign insect. From the look on his face, I wasn't sure what he was thinking—whether he was pleased that I'd defeated Balan or not.
My gaze moved to Lancelot, who simply nodded at me as though to say, "Good job." Then he turned to whisper something to Arthur, who nodded in turn. Both of them raised their hands and applauded, along with the others in the stands.
Now that I had given Balan enough time to compose himself and process his defeat, I carefully released the ice manacles that had bound his wrists and ankles. The crystalline restraints dissolved with a soft hiss, water pooling briefly in the sand before evaporating under the arena's heat. I extended my hand toward him—the gesture that protocol and knightly courtesy demanded after any formal combat—but even as I made the offer, I could see the anger playing out across his weathered features.
His pride, already battered by such a public and thorough defeat, recoiled from accepting assistance from the opponent who had humiliated him. Balan's jaw worked silently, muscles twitching as he fought against whatever words wanted to spillforth. His dark eyes refused to meet mine, instead fixing on some point beyond my shoulder as though I had become invisible the moment his sword left his hand.
The rage still simmered beneath the surface of his forced composure—I could see it in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to master himself. The crowd's thunderous cheers and applause continued to rain down around us, a constant reminder of his failure and my unexpected triumph, each voice adding salt to the wound of his honor.
"Well fought," I said.
Balan shoved himself upright with a grunt. "You fight like a woman," he spat. "With tricks, not honor."
The irony nearly drew a smile from me. Instead, I kept my composure. "Victory is victory, Sir Balan. The outcome speaks for itself."
As I turned from the arena, I caught Kay watching me from the sidelines—his expression unreadable, his gaze sharp as a blade. There was calculation in his stare, something too focused to ignore. I didn’t slow my steps, but a flicker of unease lingered within me all the same.
The roar of the crowd followed me back to the waiting area, where Percival stood grinning like a boy at his first tournament.
"Magnificent!" he said, clapping my shoulder, looking like he was so thrilled he might burst into tears. "The way you turned Balan's own magic against him—I’ve never seen water used so cleanly. You made it look effortless."
I nodded, accepting the praise with a measured smile. Inwardly, though, I brimmed with something stronger than pride—validation. Not just that my training had paid off, but that I belonged here among these warriors, these legends whose names would echo through history. I'd fought for my rightto stand in this arena, and I'd earned it through skill and determination—more than earned it, really, since underneath the carefully constructed facade of Sir Lioran, I was a woman. A woman who had just defeated one of Camelot's seasoned knights in single combat, using nothing but her intelligence, her magic, and the deadly precision Merlin had drilled into me during those grueling months in Annwyn. A woman going up against men who had trained from boyhood with sword and shield, men who had never questioned their right to wear armor or bear the title of knight.
I wish Corvin could see me now. He would be so proud of me.
I had never been prouder of myself. And for a moment, I forgot who I was, forgot why I’d come.
I wasn’t a spy. I wasn’t Merlin’s agent.
I was only a knight who had won the entire court's respect.
I watched the remaining duels with a tactician’s eye, studying how each knight performed under pressure.
Sir Galahad's solar magic overwhelmed Sir Hanover's lunar defenses in a display so brilliant it seared afterimages into my vision. The golden-haired knight stood motionless at the center of the arena while wings of pure light opened from his shoulders, each feather radiating heat that made the air shimmer. His opponent's silvery shield crumbled as Galahad's celestial fire poured from his outstretched hands. The crowd fell silent, then erupted into nervous murmurs—few had seen divine magic wielded in such a way.
When Galahad's light finally dimmed, Hanover lay unconscious on the sand, his armor still glowing with residual heat. The knight of purity helped his opponent to his feet with gentle hands, but I caught the way his gray eyes lingered on the fallen man's face, studying the expression of defeat with something that looked dangerously close to hunger.
Sir Tristan's match proved equally unsettling, though in an entirely different way. His necromancy didn't announce itself with fanfare—darkness simply began seeping from the ground around Sir Lamorak's feet like spilled ink. By the time the knight noticed, spectral hands were already clawing their way up through the arena sand. Tristan's voice carried across the field, low and melodious as he sang something in his native tongue, the words weaving his death magic into reality.
Sir Lamorak froze mid-strike, his sword arm locked in place while translucent figures wrapped around his limbs like chains. The ghosts whispered in voices only he could hear, their faces pressed close to his ears. Whatever they said made him begin shrieking—not in pain, but in absolute terror. His cries echoed off the arena walls until guards rushed forward to carry his rigid body away. He was still screaming about things only the dead could know.
After those two spectacles, the rest of the duels were rather forgettable. Regardless, Arthur and Mordred conferred after each match, their heads close, expressions unreadable. Mordred took careful notes, gesturing subtly toward certain knights. Arthur responded with small nods or curt dismissals—evaluating.
By late afternoon, the final match concluded. The arena buzzed with conversation as nobles recalculated their allegiances. Servants wove through the crowd, collecting wagers and ferrying sealed notes between spectators. Already, I could see alliances shifting—who sat closer to whom, who now looked away.
“You’ve drawn attention,” Percival said, nodding toward a cluster of northern lords who kept glancing in my direction. “Border knight topples the tournament favorite—they’ll be measuring your value by nightfall.”
“I’d rather be invisible."
“Too late.” He smiled faintly. “After today, everyone knows Sir Lioran.”
Gareth approached us then, his expression open and earnest. “That was impressive, Lioran.”
Gawain was behind him. "I thought Balan was going to catapult you into the afterlife."
I laughed. "Well, thanks for your vote of confidence."
He chuckled. "Well done, Lioran. Well fucking done."
