She glided inside my bedchamber, her eyes sliding over my austere furnishings, taking in the weapons, the lack of decoration, the discipline carved into every angle of the room. As soon as I walked across to the window, strategically placing myself as far away from her as possible, she walked across the room and closed the door behind her.
“No trophies,” she observed as she turned around once more, taking stock of the room again. “No keepsakes. Most knights of rising rank surround themselves with symbols of their worth.” Her gaze returned to me. “But not you.”
“I value function over luxury."
“Practical.” She smiled faintly. Then she turned to the window, where the storm raged beyond the glass. “Water’s such a curious element. It yields and flows, yet drowns villages when unchecked. It responds to every force… yet never forgets what it is.”
That wasn’t idle poetry. It was pointed.
I didn’t respond.
She turned slowly, stepping away from the window and closer to me. “I pay attention to the court’s undercurrents, Sir Lioran. Not just who holds power—but how that power moves between people. Between eyes. Between silences.”
I remained perfectly still.
“And lately, I’ve noticed a particular current… between you and our First Knight.”
Her meaning was unmistakable, and even though my heart lurched into my throat and I suddenly felt ill, I schooled my expression.
“Sir Lancelot has been tasked with observing all participants in the trials," I explained in a monotone. "His attention is evaluative, nothing more.”
She tilted her head slightly, studying me with that smile that said she knew too much. “Perhaps. But I know Lance. I’ve known him in ways few have.”
The casual intimacy with which she spoke his name—Lance, not Sir Lancelot—hit me hard, settling deep in my chest with the weight of a blade sliding between ribs. The familiarity in that single syllable spoke of shared history, of moments when formality had been stripped away along with armor and pretense. My jaw clenched involuntarily as unwelcome images flickered through mymind—her hands on his skin, his mouth against her throat, her whispering his shortened name in the darkness as he pushed inside her.
I forced my breathing to remain steady, but something cold and sharp had lodged itself beneath my breastbone. The rational part of my mind knew I had no claim to Lance—I knew that our stolen moments were dangerous indulgences that could destroy us both. Yet hearing Elenora speak of him with such intimacy made my chest tighten with an emotion I refused to name.
Her smile widened. “And I know when something or someone hashisattention.”
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the sharp lines of her face, the hunger behind her eyes. There was no pretense left—she wanted something from me. I just didn't know what, and that was the most concerning part.
“Your concern for Sir Lancelot’s attention is noted,” I said, measured. “But I assure you, there is nothing about me that would intrigue him.”
“Oh,” she laughed—low and real, not her courtly trill. “On the contrary,SirLioran. I think you might be theonlything that intrigues him.”
"I miss your meaning."
Lightning flashed again, illuminating her face in stark relief. In that moment, I saw something beyond the practiced seduction in her eyes—there was a sharp intelligence there that had been carefully concealed beneath layers of affected frivolity.
She stepped in close, and though I tried to move back, I found myself pressed against the stone wall. I swallowed hard, unsure of what in the hell I should do. Throw her out? Forcibly remove her if she wouldn't leave? She closed the remaining distance between us until our faces were close enough to kiss.
Then she smiled, though the expression never reached her eyes. “We all wear masks, Sir Lioran. Some more literal than others.” She leaned in even closer, so close now that I could feel her breath against my cheek—warm, perfumed with herbs and something darker. “Yours is particularly... intricate.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Even though it sounded insane, this woman frightened me more than any of the knights did or could ever hope to. More than Arthur intimidated me even. I didn't know what it was about her, but raw power just emanated from her skin.
“Don’t you?” Her voice was soft as silk yet as sharp as a blade. Gooseflesh erupted along my arms. “I’ve been watching you. The way you observe everything while pretending not to.”
My pulse quickened. What in the world did she want?
“You remind me of myself,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper as she lifted a single finger, trailing it slowly from my temple down to my jaw. My heart about stopped and then started pounding overtime.
"I don't—"
“—someone playing a dangerous game in a court of predators.” She didn’t give me a chance to respond. “Strange, isn’t it? How men only see what they expect to see.”
“I d-don’t understand."
