Visions continued to reveal themselves—all innocent and all boring. No insidious plots, no hidden vendettas—only the charming follies of youth and the everyday behaviors that defined him and marked his existence.
Sir Eamon's essence solidified as the magic ebbed. He took a steadying breath, reemerging at the altar, his expression slightly dazed yet unburdened. The vision dissipated, and his gaze met mine. I offered him a nod, acknowledging the silent passage he’d crossed into acceptance.
Mordred gestured for Sir Eamon to step aside, leaving the altar barren for the next candidate to take his place—ready for the next unveiling beneath the carved pediments of secrets and truth.
One by one, the candidates stepped forward. Some passed the trial with ease, their magic swelling like tidewaters drawn to the moon. Others faltered—one knight collapsing in pain as shadows twisted around him, his blood rejecting the altar's truth. He stumbled back, hollow-eyed, the illusion of nobility stripped away by the spell’s cruel honesty—his lineage was a sham.
Of course, he had not failed the trial simply because he came from nothing. It was that he’d lied—that he’d pretended to be descended from a great and noble Western house. I could not allow those who would lie to me through their teeth to sit at the Round Table. No, I required knights I could trust. And this young man was not among them.
Not all were fated to greatness. Not all were even what they claimed to be. The chamber buzzed with whispers, a low current of awe and unease.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
-GUIN-
The Riddle of Blood Trial
As I stood in the Hall of Lineages, surrounded by the former Pendragon kings, panic surged, seizing me with its icy grip.
The hall was just as I'd seen it in my nightmare—that horrific dream that continued to plague me. The dim light, the heavy expectant air, the numerous tombs of long-dead kings, and Arthur at the chamber's head—his presence commanding, undeniable. Every detail rippled into reality from the depths of my nightmare—the nightmare in which the long-dead kings claimed me as a possession and then a sacrifice.
My fingers twitched. I felt the pull of my own throat tightening against a scream I refused to utter.
No, Guin. It was just a dream.
And dreams held no claim over the waking world. They could haunt, but they couldn't command.
I forced my breathing to even out, every exhale tearing apart the net of my fears. Around me, knights murmured, their whispers filled with tension and anticipation. The quiet rustle ofarmor and fabric was a reminder of their solid presence, their bodies creating a bulwark against the nightmare that played throughout my mind like a warning.
It wasn't going to happen. The nightmare was mine alone, trapped in the realm of sleep where it belonged. Here in the hall, I was Sir Lioran, knight among knights.
Calm. Steady. I am safe. There are no skeletons or corpses coming to life.
My mind cleared, and I inhaled deeply, forcing the nightmare and the fear to the dark recesses of my mind as I watched the seventh or so knight, Sir Leofric, approach the altar, and Mordred handed him the dagger.
After Sir Leofric completed the trial successfully, Galahad took his place. His serene countenance remained untouched as the magic revealed his noble lineage. To no one's surprise, there were no blemishes on Galahad's soul, no hidden lies, nothing that would mark him as anything other than flawless. I couldn't deny my irritation. How was it possible to be so unwaveringly good? Almost as if purity radiated from him like a relentless sun, he seemed superhuman, beyond the maze of human flaws—unreal, almost. Of course, he passed the trial. To no one's surprise.
Sir Gawain followed, his passage similar to Leofric's. Admired by those who knew him, he was respected for his valor. The exposure of his lineage revealed a legacy as commendable as his knightly career, seamless and mostly untarnished. There were naughty deeds, desires, or thoughts here and there, but nothing that would impede his chance at the Round Table. Gawain was imperfection with grace.
Then came Sir Kay, and it seemed the room held its collective breath. Everyone speculated a storm was coming—you could see as much in their expressions. Kay’s well-known resentment toward Arthur was no secret. I was certain everyonewondered what glimpses the trial might offer of Kay’s deepest dissatisfaction—the chaotic resentments bottled just beneath his surface.
Once he drew the dagger across his palm, his royal lineage was revealed—no surprises there. But then came the interesting part. As expected, the magic revealed Kay's jealousy of Arthur—mostly over his resentment of Excalibur's choice.
And that was it.
The reveal left me empty of satisfaction; it was all so mundane—something that everyone gathered had already known. Nothing shocking, nothing novel. Nothing about all his hidden secrets, the way he used people, the horrible things I was sure he'd done. Just the predictable dose of envy that everyone already knew existed in Kay. Knights glanced at one another, expressions flat—we all were expecting something so much… more. Even Arthur appeared somewhat surprised, muttering something under his breath as Mordred announced Kay's completion of the trial.
I wondered if Kay had somehow managed to cover his true secrets with some magical elixir, similar to the Caliope and the Veilwood. It was conceivable with his plenitude of castle connections. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that such was exactly the case because I knew much uglier thoughts existed within his mind than had been revealed here. Merlin's profile on Kay had been more damning than the Riddle of Blood.
My own time of reckoning loomed over me like a thunderhead—dark, oppressive, inevitable.
The Riddle of Blood would lay bare my essence: my lineage, my magic. And, of course, the secret I was fighting so fiercely to conceal. If this trial unearthed that truth, it wouldn’t just mean disgrace. It would mean death.
When it was my turn, I approached the altar and accepted the dagger. Every candidate before me had emerged with a story of triumph or failure, but those failures hadn't been catastrophic. Not yet, anyway. I could only pray mine wouldn’t end in ruin.
Hopefully, Elenora would prove trustworthy.
Yes, this was a reckoning—for me, for Camelot, and for Elenora, whose loyalty still hung in the balance. After drinking the Veilwood Draught, I'd taken the Caliope potion she'd offered, swallowing its shimmering contents just before the trial. Now they both coursed through me, a lingering warmth that felt both soothing and treacherous. A gift, she’d said. But I knew enough of court politics to recognize that all gifts come with teeth.
