When we reached the perimeter of the Whispering Wilds, I was surprised—I had not realized twenty minutes had gone by. And yet they had—all in silence.
My eyes immediately fell to the warning stone that stood in front of the path that led into the Wilds. It was a jagged slab of granite half-buried in the earth, leaning as though something deeper in the woods had tried to drag it down over the centuries. Moss clung to its base, but nothing living dared to grow directly against its face. Not even weeds.
Across the front of the stone, runes had been carved so deeply they looked gouged rather than etched—curving sigils. The markings did not belong to Camelot or any known kingdom. They were older, shaped by hands that understood magic in a way mortals had forgotten. At eye level, the most prominent symbol was a circle split by a jagged line, like a wound through stone. Some said it represented the boundary between realms. Others said it was a promise that the forest would not release what it claimed.
At the top of the stone, hammered into place with blackened iron nails, hung a weathered talisman—twisted roots braided with horsehair and bound around a small wooden charm carved into the shape of a snarling creature. Someone—likely a villager—had tied red string around the upper corner of the stone, the color faded but unmistakable. Red was a warning. Red was blood. Red meantdon’t go any farther.
Just beyond the stone, the forest opened its mouth, a dark corridor between ancient trees that leaned too close together, their trunks bowed inward. The air changed there—colder, heavier, thick with something metallic that tasted like old magic and older danger.
No birds sang in those branches. No insects hummed. Even the light seemed to falter, dimming into a greenish cast as if unsure it was welcome.
Even the bravest knights of Camelot knew that the warning stone did not exaggerate. It understated. For everything beyond it belonged not to Camelot, and not even entirely to the mortal world, but to the deep magic that had rooted itself in the soil long before Camelot rose—and had no intention of letting anyone trespass lightly.
I dismounted and tied Nero to the large post standing there—the demarcation between the Wilds and Thornhallow. It was the mark between safety and the horrors that lived within the forest.
"Are you ready?" I asked as I glanced up at Lioran.
"I am," he responded, absorbing my brusqueness without offense.
"We will leave the horses here—it's not safe for them to continue." Even now, I could hear Nero's nervous snorting, see the way his ears flattened against his skull as he pulled against the reins. The usually fearless destrier who had carried me through countless battles was prancing sideways, his dark eyesrolling white at the edges as he stared into the shadowed depths of the Whispering Wilds. Beside him, Lioran's mount was faring no better, tossing its head and backing away from the treeline with small, frightened whinnies that echoed off the ancient oaks.
The horses always knew. Their instincts ran deeper than human reason, warning them of dangers that lurked beyond the veil. I'd seen warhorses face down charging knights without flinching, yet none would willingly enter these woods. The air here thrummed with something unnatural, something that made their primitive minds scream warnings their riders often ignored to their peril.
"Will the horses be safe here?" he asked as he untied the strap of the bag containing the glass orbs from his saddle and slung it across one shoulder.
I nodded. "Nothing is permitted to leave the forest; wards surrounding the perimeter make it so."
He offered me a warm smile. “Perhaps two hunters then will prove more effective than one, Sir Lancelot.”
His eagerness only irritated me further. “I hunt alone. Always have.”
“Yet here we are.”
I studied him more closely, expecting anger at my brusque demeanor—or at the very least, resentment. Instead, I found nothing but a pleasant countenance. No anger, no insult, no challenge, no submission.
Most young knights either trembled beneath my reputation or tried to rise above it. Lioran did neither. That unsettled me more than open hostility would have.
"Then let us begin,” I muttered, setting a brisk pace toward the forest. “Stay close. The trees shift when unobserved. Men have walked in circles for days, thinking they were headed straight.”
I strode ahead, blades brushing against my armor, twigs snapping beneath my boots. Still, I glanced back more often than I meant to. Why, I couldn’t say. To make sure he was still behind me? To make certain he hadn't lost his way? Or—worse—just to look at him?
No, it wasn't that.
Neverthat.
While I could admit that Lioran was the prettiest man I'd ever encountered—with features that would make court ladies envious and a grace that rivaled the finest sculptures in Arthur's statue garden—he remained fundamentally that:a man.A beautiful one, certainly, with those striking eyes and that infuriatingly perfect smile, but a man nonetheless.
So, regardless of whatever strange magnetism seemed to pull at my attention whenever he was near, my desires had always run in one clear direction. I was a man who sought the soft curves and gentle warmth of women, who found satisfaction in silk and perfume rather than steel and leather.
That truth should have been enough to silence whatever restlessness Lioran's presence stirred within me.Shouldhave been.
“The Wilds respond to fear,” I continued, pushing aside a branch that bent too far, too eagerly, into my path. “Control your thoughts, and the forest grows less hostile.”
“You speak as though it’s alive."
“Everything magical is alive."
As we moved deeper into the twisted pathways of the Whispering Wilds, I felt the uncomfortable gravity of divided loyalties settling over me. The weight of Arthur's explicit instructions pressed against my conscience with each step we took into the shadowed undergrowth. He'd tasked me with watching Lioran carefully for any signs of potential rebellion—to observe his reactions, test his responses, and determine ifCarlisle and the ambitious lords of the North had somehow gotten to him.
