No one questioned my departure—Sir Lioran’s obsessive dedication to his craft had become a joke among the other knights. I crossed the Great Hall with measured calm, forcing each step, one after the next.
Confidence. Control. Poise.
I kept my head high and did not look toward the table where Elenora was now sitting on Lancelot's lap.
But Ifelthim.
Lancelot’s gaze on me—sharp, sudden,there.
I didn’t look to ensure it was true. I couldn’t. If I did, everything would unravel.
So I walked on, my boots striking stone in an even rhythm, my cloak whispering behind me. The corridors outside the hall were blessedly cool, and once I was outside the hall, I inhaled deeply, trying to exhale the tightness from my chest. The storm howled louder here, wind driving sheets of rain against the narrow windows. Lightning flashed, followed a breath later by a thunderclap that rattled the bones of Camelot.
The water in the air responded to me like an extension of thought—mist gathering at the corners of the hallway, droplets clinging to the windows with more weight than they should. Magic stirred beneath my skin like an undertow.
I was unraveling.
And Elenora had seen it.
What had she picked up on, exactly? My lingering glances at Lance? Or something deeper—something more dangerous? Had she seen through my disguise, even for an instant?
No. It wasn’t impossible.
And yet… something within me continued to worry, to struggle with thoughts of what if? Elenora was a woman who had survived the brutal game of Camelot’s court not with power but withinsight. She read people the way others read poetry—looking not at what was said but at what was leftunsaid. And now I was fairly sure I was her favorite unread page.
I turned sharply down the corridor toward the knights’ quarters, heart hammering. My boots struck stone louder than they should have. And the storm seemed to follow me like a hunter. Every drop against the window echoed my pulse.
What would Elenora do with whatever she suspected about me?
Whisper it to Arthur? Use it against Lancelot? Use it to controlme?
I reached my chamber door and paused, palms flat against the wood. The hall behind me remained empty. No footsteps. No whispers. But the feeling of being watched lingered like smoke after flame. I felt like I was losing my mind.
Inside, I locked the door with shaking fingers and pressed my back to it, exhaling slowly. Peep wasn't on the sill, no doubt taking cover from the rain wherever it was he lived. So I was left with only myself for company, and that company wasn't the best at the moment.
You are unraveling,I told myself.There is nothing saying that Elenora knows anything! She simply caught you looking at Lancelot—who cares? It means nothing!
No,I thought back.Her gaze said otherwise. She knows.
I was certain she did. It was all in her expression. The way she'd smiled victoriously. Maybe she didn't know everything, but I was sure she knew enough, and that made her a threat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
-ARTHUR-
Ihad sworn never to return to this part of the Whispering Wilds, but Blodeuwyn had left me no choice.
If I wanted information, I would have to come in person to claim it. So, here I was.
The trees leaned inward like eavesdroppers, their twisted limbs heavy with moss. The ground shifted beneath each step I took, never quite solid, as if the earth itself resented the intrusion. Silence ruled here—not peace, but the charged stillness before a blade strikes. And sometimes, the silence broke… with whispers. Not from mouths, but from the forest itself.
From nowhere. From everywhere.
It repulsed me.
We should not be here.The dragon disliked the Whispering Wilds almost as much as I did.
Yet here I was—Arthur Pendragon, King of Logres—reduced to seeking counsel from the very creatures I'd exiled and worse.
