His words landed with quiet weight. I wasn't used to being seen in such a way—not at court, not even among fellow magic users. Everyone evaluated, judged. He simply watched.
"Water is alive in its way. It listens. It reflects. It never lies. It remembers. I don't command it. I collaborate with it."
He nodded, his expression thoughtful. "You speak about it as if you were describing a lover."
At his words, I glanced at him, surprised. There was no mockery in his voice—just a quiet curiosity. I looked away again, my throat tight.
"Perhaps I do, Sir Lancelot."
"Please," he started and then paused as if he were playing something over in his mind. "Call me Lance."
The request for familiarity shocked me. First names between knights were common enough, but it seemed only Arthur called Lancelot by his abbreviated name. As far as I knew, Lancelot rarely invited such intimacy from others, maintaining the formal distance his position as Arthur's champion required.
And yet, he had allowed me entrance into that intimacy.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "You saidwater doesn't lie. Is that why you hide behind your calm manners? Behind your soft tones? The careful steps you take? So you won't reveal too much about yourself—or so the water within you won't? I've watched you. You're always measuring. Always managing perception."
I didn't respond. Couldn't, really. Instead, I looked at the rain pelting the mouth of the cave.
"I'm not judging you," he added, his voice lower.
His honesty cut deeper than I'd expected. I turned to meet his eyes, and something unspoken passed between us—not a question, not yet, but an acknowledgment.
"I am aware of where I stand with the others," I offered as a response to his question, though I wasn't certain if it really was a response. "I am different. From the North. Not of the same class."
"It doesn't make you less."
I looked at him and smiled. "I didn't expect you to be… kind," I said quietly, my voice barely audible above the steady drumming of rain against stone. The admission slipped out before I could stop it, raw and unguarded in a way that made my chest tighten with vulnerability.
"You didn't?"
I shook my head. "All the stories about you paint you as something else entirely—a weapon in Arthur's hand, merciless and cold. They speak of Sir Lancelot as though he were forged from steel rather than born of flesh and blood."
Our eyes met in the dim light. Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating his features and the expression in his gaze that seemed to see beyond Lioran's carefully constructed facade—into the woman underneath.
I pulled my knees closer to my chest, suddenly aware of how small the cave felt with both of us pressed into its confines.
"Is that what they say about me?" His voice was soft, throaty.
"The tales they tell in taverns and great halls..." I continued, my words coming slower now, more carefully. "They describe a knight who shows no mercy, who cuts down enemies without hesitation or regret. A man who serves his king with absolute devotion and feels nothing for those who stand in his way."
"I suppose all of that is true," he amended before cocking his head to the side. "Perhaps I'm kind to you because I didn’t expect to… like you."
He gave me a crooked smile that was decidedly boyish—charming.
The rain continued outside, relentless. But inside, the world had stilled.
"You’re unlike any knight I’ve ever encountered," Lance said, his eyes narrowing at me. "Your approach to magic, to hunting, to combat itself follows patterns I don’t recognize." He paused, and something shifted in his expression—softening. "Yet I find I’m more intrigued than suspicious."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
-GUIN-
The Hunt Trial
Lance had just admitted he found himself intrigued by me.
The admission created a sense of something dangerous between us—an intimacy that hadn't been there before. I should have deflected—maintained my distance, remembered my mission. Instead, I found myself caught in this fragile moment of truth, buried among the endless deceptions that had become my life since arriving at Camelot.
