The air here felt wrong. Thin. Dull. As if magic itself had been wrung from the land. And I supposed, in a manner of speaking, it had been.
"I'm here," I breathed to no one in particular.
Returned to Logres. To what was once my home, but now entirely Arthur's realm. Returned to the kingdom that would have executed me—the kingdom that executed my parents.
In one way, Arthur had succeeded in destroying me—I wasn't the same naive girl I had been. Now I was something—someone—altogether different.
Sir Lioran.
I was no longer Guinevere.
I was a knight from the northern provinces, come to join Arthur’s Shadow Trials, come to prove myself worthy of becoming one of his Knights of the Round Table. Come to get close to him so I could betray him. So I could end him.
Familiar roads stretched before me, made foreign by time and exile. Shade carried me through this side of the Whispering Wilds, but the forest resisted our passage. Just as before, on the Annwyn side of this forest, branches dipped when we passed beneath them. Roots rose from the ground like grasping fingers. The whispers—the ones that gave the forest its reputation—grew louder. Arthur might have outlawed magic, but here—in the natural world—it was very much alive.
I didn't know how long I rode until I heard voices ahead and recognized a winding dirt road. That meant I'd reached the perimeter of the Whispering Wilds, the end of the forest. Now civilization lay ahead.
I tensed.
The King's Guard stepped into view, their armor gleaming, their steps practiced. They were Arthur’s law made flesh.
Shade snorted. I steadied her.
My hand hovered near my sword, but I forced it still. Instead, I straightened, eyes forward, projecting confidence. This would prove to be the first real test of my disguise. I couldn't afford to fail.
"State your name and business," the captain barked. Scarred. Broad. Sharp eyes.
"Sir Lioran of the Northern Provinces." My voice—deeper now, decidedly masculine—didn't waver.
He squinted at me. "From the north?"
"Aye. I seek entrance to the Shadow Trials."
I studied the soldiers. Their exhaustion betrayed them—sleepless eyes, twitchy movements, fear bleeding from their pores. Religious symbols hung over their armor, desperate wards against magic. Even as I watched, they flinched at the forest’s sounds. No matter Arthur's orders, his purges, or his executions, he couldn't ebb the flow of magic from the Whispering Wilds.
Another soldier stepped forward, an Iron Hound straining at his leash.
The beast locked eyes with me. Up close, the creature disturbed me more than I remembered. Metal and flesh entwined. Joints hissed with steam. Its body radiated something wrong—organic magic twisted into steel.
I stayed perfectly still.
The hound sniffed. Snorted. Stepped back.
No reaction. Good.
My magic held.
"Your papers."
I reached into my saddlebag with deliberate calm, withdrawing the carefully prepared documents that would either secure my passage or expose me as a fraud. The parchment felt heavy in my gloved hands—not from its physical weight, but from the magnitude of deception it represented.
The forged identification bore my new name in flowing script, each letter meticulously crafted to appear authentic. Dame Yseldra of Fenwick Vale's seal pressed deep into the crimson wax that gleamed at the bottom—a legitimate markfrom a real noblewoman who had become my sponsor through Merlin's careful manipulation. The seal depicted a stylized falcon in flight, wings spread wide above a mountain peak, representing the rugged terrain of her northern holdings.
Most importantly, nestled between the identification papers lay an official invitation to Arthur's Shadow Trials, its edges gilded with gold leaf and bearing the unmistakable dragon insignia of Camelot's royal house. The invitation itself was genuine—stolen rather than forged—though the name inscribed within had been altered.
While Dame Yseldra existed as more than mere fiction, she would be of no real consequence to Arthur's court. The northern provinces had always been regarded as Logres' untamed frontier, a collection of scattered holdings carved from the unforgiving wilderness. Most nobles from that region rarely ventured to Camelot, preferring to govern their harsh lands from weathered stone keeps that had withstood centuries of bitter winters, barbarian raids, and tyrant kings.
Because this remote corner of Logres remained so wild, so rough, so stubbornly uncivilized despite Arthur's centralizing efforts, it naturally followed that its people would possess the same rugged qualities—hardy, independent, and disinclined toward the refined courtesies that defined southern nobility. A knight from such lands arriving with minimal ceremony and maximum practicality would surprise no one at court.
