“Careful,” I said over my shoulder. “These steps like to twist ankles if you rush them.”
“I’m not rushing.”
We emerged into the upper gallery, light slanting across the floor in long bars from the narrow windows. The corridor opened into an archway carved with vines and robed figures. Beyond it, the cloister revealed itself—pale stone columnsstretching in a long row, the air cooler here, almost reverent. And past the arches: the garden.
A square of green sheltered by the walls. A little fountain murmuring at its center. Beds of herbs and spring blooms stirred in a restless breeze. It always smelled of mint and lavender here, even in winter. A strange, comforting place.
Lioran stepped forward, the tension in his shoulders easing as though the cloister itself exhaled for him.
“This is where I come to think,” I said quietly, moving to stand beside him. “Or to breathe. Camelot can crush a man if he doesn’t take moments like these.”
He breathed in the garden air slowly, as if it grounded him. As if it mattered.
“The eastern cloister was built by Arthur’s grandfather,” I continued, grateful for the distraction of a history lesson as we neared the covered walkway. “He brought artisans from across the sea to carve these panels from ancient myths.”
Lioran paused to study the carvings with genuine interest. His slender fingers hovered just above the stone, as if reluctant to touch something so sacred. There was a reverence in his stillness—rare among knights, who often saw only ornament where story once lived. But it was his hands that held my attention—too fine, too delicate. Fingers that could have belonged to a woman.
When he stopped in front of the panel depicting the Lady of the Lake, something in his posture shifted. Subtle but telling. A tension like a string drawn too tight. Most would have missed it.
I did not.
“The Lady of the Lake,” I said, watching his face.
“Yes,” he replied quietly, eyes still fixed on the carving.
“I assume you’ve heard the legends?”
He turned to me then, offering a small smile. “Yes—but please, remind me.”
Then he turned back to the panel, and suddenly, I felt unbelievably large beside him. Towering. He was just so damned… small. Fragile, almost.
“They say she appears only to those destined for greatness... or terrible responsibility.”
His expression didn’t change, but I saw it—the faint quickening of breath, the way his shoulders squared against something unseen. Almost as if he were afraid.
“Do you believe such stories?” he asked, eyes still on the Lady.
“I’ve seen enough to know legends often hide truth—twisted, disguised, but still there.”
We walked on in silence, the stone path giving way to soft grass. A trellis draped with climbing roses arched overhead. At the far end of the path, we paused at the reflecting pool where pale lilies had just begun to bloom.
The surface rippled faintly, throwing our reflections in shimmers.
Mine, solid. Familiar.
Lioran’s, blurred. As though the water itself struggled to hold him. Strange.
“Do you ever wish for change, Lance?” he asked then—softly, unexpectedly.
I met his eyes—not in the water, but directly—and found myself unable to look away.
"More with each passing day."
"As do I."
We stood in silence then, watching the water lilies drift on invisible currents. Their delicate white petals floated like secrets, unfolding slowly to the morning sun.
Our confession lingered in the air between us—ungrasped, but unmistakable. The weight of it settled into my bones, unexpected yet undeniable. Beside me, Lioran remained still,carved in light and shadow like a figure from myth. The space between us felt vast at the same time that it felt intimate, filled with so many things I was sure we wanted to say but couldn't.
