For a moment that stretched like eternity, he stood there with his back rigid, shoulders set in absolute resolve. I could see the tension coiled in every muscle of his frame—a man at war with himself and losing.
Then, without even a backward glance, he turned and walked away. His movements were deliberate, controlled, each step carrying him further from this moment we could never speak of again. I hurried behind him, but the difference in our gaits made itself known as the distance between us stretched like a chasm. Even the sound of his footsteps faded, leaving only the whisper of wind through leaves and the terrible silence of words that would forever remain unspoken.
I wanted to tell him the truth:that he wasn’t mad, that he was right—I was as much a woman as his body believed me to be. But I couldn’t—not without dooming myself and my mission.
So I let him walk away, thinking he’d crossed a line he couldn’t live with, thinking I was someone I wasn’t.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
-KAY-
Iwatched as the last of the knights returned from the Whispering Wilds, their laughter echoing through the courtyard as we all walked toward the Great Hall, which would soon be bustling with a feast in our honor.
Laughter echoed, with the exception of one pair.
Lancelot and Lioran walked in silence. And it was not a companionable silence. It was a tense one.
While the others crowded around one another, speaking of the quarry they’d caught and others they hadn’t, those two kept a careful distance.
I watched from the shadows, arms folded. The shift between them was obvious—comrades turned strangers.
Lancelot’s usual swagger had dulled, and his jaw was tight. As I watched, his gaze skittered past Lioran more than once, then retreated immediately as if Lioran had burned him. All the while, Lancelot radiated a storm of emotions: desire battling with confusion, attraction clashing with his rigid sense of identity. I could almost taste it in the air—a blend of longing and fear swirling around him.
I almost laughed.
The great Lancelot—undone by a fellow knight.
If only he knew the truth.
She’s playing you beautifully,I thought, savoring the irony. Beneath Lioran’s armor beat a woman’s heart—and Lancelot hadn’t seen it. But I had. And I held that secret like a dagger at my hip, waiting for the moment it would cut deepest.
Information was power in Camelot, and this particular secret could destroy not just the mysterious Lioran but potentially Lancelot and Arthur as well, depending on how I wielded it.
As we all piled into the Great Hall, I continued to watch the two of them. Their eyes met—just briefly—but it was enough. A flicker of something passed between them. A pull. A warning. Regret and shame.
Ah, it was all too entertaining. The irony was delicious—Arthur’s greatest knight, the man who had never known defeat in battle, conquered by feelings he couldn’t name or understand. Let the mighty Lancelot suffer through his crisis of identity a while longer, wrestling with desires that went against everything he thought he knew about himself.
Ah, the tragedy of it all. I wanted to laugh.
My lips curved into the faintest of smiles as I savored the spectacle unfolding before me. Every stolen glance between them, every moment of tension, every flicker of confusion across Lancelot’s usually confident features—it was a feast.
The knowledge I possessed was a blade waiting to be drawn. When the time was right—and I would know exactly when that moment arrived—I would ensure maximum damage to all involved.
Now that I knew Lioran's secret, I saw it everywhere. Her movements were too precise. Too measured. The way she held herself, guarded but not stiff—grace disguised as discipline.
How hadn’t I seen it sooner?
Because she was good. Because she knew how to disappear behind the armor. But Lancelot… Lancelot was responding to something he didn’t understand. Not just admiration. Not just confusion.Desire.And it was clearly tearing him apart.
Perfect.
I slipped into my usual seat in the room—close enough to watch, far enough to remain unseen.
Lioran sat across the room, laughing as Percival regaled her with some tale no doubt trivial and utterly uninteresting. What a complete dolt that one was—forever prattling on about his latest healing ventures or philosophical musings that would bore even the most patient listener to tears.
They sat near the great hearth, where the firelight softened her features in a way that made my teeth clench with irritation. Even disguised as she was, there remained something inherently feminine in the way she moved her hands while speaking, the graceful turn of her wrist as she gestured.
Gods, how I wanted to tear away that carefully constructed facade and see the woman beneath the disguise. I was practically vibrating with the need to peel back each meticulously crafted layer and witness exactly what this spy looked like in her natural form. For that was precisely what she was, wasn't she? A spy, an infiltrator, a deception wrapped in chainmail and false bravado.
