"You can trust me," she nearly whispered.
Behind the calculation, I glimpsed something else. Not kindness—but recognition. A flicker of someone who, like me, lived behind layers. Who knew what it meant to survive by secrecy.
"Thank you," I said at last, figuring there was nothing more left to say. I wouldn’t drink it—not yet. Maybe not ever. I would make that decision when the time came.
She offered a small, satisfied smile—still devoid of warmth—and stepped back toward the door. She hesitated for a moment with her hand on the latch and turned back to face me.
"Good luck, Lioran," she whispered, and with a nod, opened the door and disappeared into the hallway.
I had a feeling the trial tomorrow would test much more than my blood. It would test the strength of secrets.
And the price I was willing to pay to keep mine.
-ELENORA-
The corridor stretched before me, shadows pooling in the alcoves between flickering torches. I kept my pace measured, unhurried—just another courtier returning from an evening assignation. No one would question me slipping from a knight's chamber at this hour. They never did.
But my mind churned with calculations far removed from the role I played.
Drink it, I thought, willing the command through stone and distance to reach the woman I had left behind.Drink the damned Caliope.
Because if she didn't, if she walked into that trial tomorrow with her blood ready to sing its truths to anyone with ears to hear them, there would be nothing I could do to help her. Not without exposing myself. Not with the King's Guard stationed at every exit. Not with Arthur himself presiding over the spectacle.
I couldn't save her if she refused to save herself.
Yes, theVeilwoodmight help her—it might even be enough. But knowing Mordred, he had polluted the trial with magic of his own—magic that would seek out such potions and deactivate them. He wouldn't be able to deactivate the Caliope—mainly because he would never have thought to ward against it. Caliope had not been seen in the mortal realm in centuries. But it still existed—if you knew where to look.
Truth be told, I was surprised Guinevere had recognized it. Merlin had taught her well.
My fingers tightened around the silk of my gown. The fabric crumpled easily, unlike the knots of frustration building in my chest. I had given her every advantage I dared—thewarning, the potion, even that protective charm that warded against sleepwalkers—something she'd carelessly tucked away somewhere. How did I know as much? Because I couldn't feel its power anywhere within her chamber, and I should have.
Which brought me to the other complication threading through this already tangled web.
Vaelen.
His presence had been unmistakable the moment I'd entered Guinevere's chamber. Not a scent exactly—something more subtle. The residue of dreamwalking left its own signature for those trained to recognize it. Spectral afterimages flickered at the edges of my vision: an owl perched on the windowsill, silver-edged darkness pooling near the bed, the ghost of conversations held in the space between waking and sleep.
He had been visiting her. Regularly, if the strength of the traces was any indication. How had I not noticed it the last time I had visited her? Was it possible my senses had missed it? I shook my head at the thought—no, I never missed anything. Then Vaelen had done a good job of cleaning up after himself—at least initially. But in the intervening days, he'd grown lazy, because I had picked up on his scent the second I'd stepped inside her chamber.
The bastard.
Now I understood why I'd been unsuccessful the times I'd tried to slip into her dreams myself. Each time, I'd been shut out. Firmly. Efficiently. The first time, I'd assumed the dreamwalker charm had done its work—that my gift had provided the protection I'd intended, even against my own magic.
Now I knew better.
Vaelen had warded her mind. Not to protect her from dreamwalkers in general, but to keepmespecifically out while maintaining his own access to her. The arrogance of it would have been impressive if it weren't so infuriating.
Vaelen wasn't my enemy—not precisely. We both operated in Camelot's shadows for our own purposes, both wearing masks, both playing dangerous games with Arthur's court as our board. An unspoken pact existed between us: I wouldn't reveal his identity; he wouldn't reveal mine. Mutual assured destruction made for reliable insurance.
But that didn't mean our goals aligned.
His were... limited. Shortsighted. I suppose his goals were noble enough, but my purpose for being here was so much larger, so much grander. So much more important. And I certainly didn't intend to waste Guinevere's extraordinary abilities—whatever they truly were, wherever they'd truly come from—on Vaelen.
Guinevere was meant for greater things than becoming another pawn in a man's movement, another weapon wielded by someone else's hand. Arthur had used me that way once. I wouldn't stand by while Vaelen did the same to her, no matter how prettily he dressed it in dreams and owl-formed visits.
I reached my chambers and slipped inside, bolting the door behind me. The wards I had placed activated immediately, layers of protection settling around me like a familiar cloak.
Vaelen and I needed to have a little conversation. Yes, we needed to establish new terms regarding Guinevere.
