His hand moved to rest casually on the pommel of his sword, fingers drumming against the worn leather grip with barely contained eagerness. There was no malice in his challenge—only the honest excitement of a warrior eager to measure his skills against a worthy opponent.
"Fair warning though," Gareth added with a chuckle, already beginning to circle toward an open section of the training yard where we'd have room to maneuver. "I've been working on some new techniques since the Hunt Trial. Mordred's been... generous with his instruction lately."
I was surprised to hear that Mordred was training Gareth's elemental power, although I supposed I shouldn't have been. Everyone had their favorites.
As Gareth and I walked away, I saw Lance glance up and watch us. Perhaps he'd expected me to choose him as my sparring partner? Or perhaps he was attempting to avoid me as much as I was attempting to avoid him?
Our eyes met—briefly. And I saw it.Surprise.And behind that?Disappointment.
I turned away, forcing my gaze to snap back to Gareth, my jaw clenching as I pushed down the unwelcome stab of guilt that pierced through my chest. The disappointment in Lance's eyes lingered in my peripheral vision like a ghost, but I couldn't—wouldn't—allow myself to acknowledge it. Not when every moment of weakness, every stolen glance or softened expression, threatened to unravel the careful web of deception I'd woven around my identity.
I couldn't afford to care about Lance's feelings, no matter how the wounded look in his dark eyes made something twist painfully in my stomach. Not when the fate of so many rested squarely on my shoulders, their lives hanging in the balance of my success or failure in these trials. Not when Merlin's grand plan depended on my ability to maintain this charade, to gather the intelligence needed to strike at Arthur's regime from within.
The weight of responsibility pressed down on me like a physical burden, reminding me that personal desires were luxuries I simply could not indulge. Lance's disappointment was unfortunate, but it was a necessary casualty in a war much larger than either of us.
Gareth proved to be an engaging opponent, his flames requiring creative water counters that demanded my full concentration. Yet even as I blocked and parried, creating water shields and ice projectiles, my awareness of Lance's continued observation never fully dissipated.
Gareth continued his relentless assault, his flames licking hungrily from his blade as he pressed forward with the determination of a man who understood the value of testing limits. Each strike came with increasing vigor, the fire dancing along his sword's edge in patterns that spoke of years spent perfecting his elemental control.
I countered with liquid precision, my magic flowing like water finding its natural course around obstacles. Ice crystallized from the moisture in the air to meet his flames, the collision creating billowing clouds of steam that obscured our movements from the watching knights. When his fire proved too intense for ice alone, I shifted tactics—summoning protective barriers of rushing water that hissed and spat as they absorbed the heat of his attacks, the droplets evaporating into mist.
The rhythm of our sparring became almost meditative: his aggressive fire meeting my adaptive water, steam rising between us in veils that parted and reformed with each exchange of blows. Yet even as I lost myself in the technical demands of the combat, matching element to element, I remained acutely aware of the steady weight of observation from the sidelines—Lance's dark gaze tracking my every movement like a predator studying prey he could no longer pursue.
Throughout the morning, I methodically avoided any opportunity for private conversation with Lance. When the knights broke into discussion groups to analyze strategy for the next trial (the subject of which was still unannounced), I positioned myself with Percival and Galahad rather than joining Lance's circle.
Continuously, I felt Lance's gaze burning into my back—a physical sensation I couldn't ignore despite my best efforts. The cost of maintaining this distance was higher than I'd anticipated, yet I reminded myself that emotions were luxuries I had no business feeling.
Neither could he, for that matter.
During the midday meal, I deliberately sat between Gawain and Tristan, engaging them in conversation about regional magical variations—a topic that should have fascinated me. Yet I found my attention repeatedly drifting to where Lance satbeside Arthur, the First Knight uncharacteristically subdued as he picked at his food without enthusiasm.
Arthur leaned over to speak to him. Lance gave a polite nod, nothing more.
This is necessary,I told myself again.For both of us.
Gawain and Tristan chatted affably about this and that, and soon Percival joined us and heartily added his viewpoints on whatever topics they were discussing.
Though I smiled and nodded, I had no idea what they were talking about. Instead, my mind kept replaying the kiss Lance and I had shared two days earlier.
"I am not certain who emerged the victor this day—water or fire," Tristan observed, his perceptive eyes studying my face, his strange accent almost weaving a dream state through my ears.
"All I could see was steam," Gawain answered with a laugh.
They were now discussing Gareth and me. The absolute last conversation I wanted to have.
I turned to Tristan and smiled, noting how his tone carried a deceptively casual quality, but his eyes—deep brown orbs that seemed almost black in the hall's dim lighting—held a sharpness that spoke of genuine curiosity rather than suspicion. His tone and expression weren't abrasive or calculating like some of the other knights'. Instead, there was something almost warm in his dark gaze, an authentic interest.
As I had observed many times before, Tristan was exceedingly handsome, but in a completely different way from the classical beauty of someone like Galahad or the rugged masculinity that Lance embodied. His appeal was exotic, foreign—the olive tone of his skin spoke of distant shores and warmer climates, while his dark curls caught the torchlight in a way that suggested he'd be equally at home composing poetry under moonlight as wielding a sword in battle. There was an artisticsensibility to his features, a refinement that marked him as different from the typical Logres-born knights.
Before the questions could deepen, Percival changed the subject.
“Sir Lancelot seems troubled today,” he noted as he watched the man in question, and my stomach sank even further. “Did something happen during the hunt?” he finished as he turned to look at me.
I reached for my chalice of ale. Calm. Unmoved.
“The hunt was successful,” I responded. "Beyond that, Sir Lancelot's concerns are his own."
Percival blinked, no doubt taken aback by the frost in my tone.
