Beforehand, I'd reached out to Merlin to ask him for guidance—to tell him about Elenora's gift and to ask whether or not I should trust it. But no matter how many times I'd tried to reach him, he hadn't responded. After the fourth or so attempt, I'd had to swallow the realization that I would have to make up my own mind—that in this instance, I had only myself to rely on.
I scanned the chamber. Percival stood off to the side, his quiet strength grounding me. Lance, across the circle, met my gaze with a small, almost imperceptible nod. But I felt it as if he’d reached out and taken my hand. His steadiness stirred something in me that felt too much like longing. If my truth were revealed here and now—if I became Guinevere again, not Lioran—would he look at me the same way?
Of course not—he would look at you like the lie you are.
And what if my truth revealed the fact that I had feelings for him and for Arthur? There were many sides to my lies—not just the fact that I was a spy in Arthur's court. Not just that I was a woman in disguise as a man. Those truths could remain hidden, and yet, I could still be found guilty of other unpalatable truths.
The dagger felt heavy in my hand as I glanced down at it and wondered:What would the altar reveal about me?Would Annwyn bleed through my skin, bright and damning? Would it reveal that I'd pulled the sword from the stone? Would it show the woman beneath the man's facade?
Depending on Elenora's goals, the Caliope might protect me, or it might backfire spectacularly. And what if it negated the effects of the Veilwood? Too many questions with no answers.
I stepped forward, forcing my breath to remain steady despite the dagger’s chill against my palm. The blade felt almost sentient, as though it sensed the lies beneath my skin. I focused on the altar. It stood silent and expectant.
"Brothers. Kings of old. Come and feast."
The memory of Arthur's voice from the nightmare suddenly gripped hold of my overwhelmed mind.
No.I thought, scrunching my eyes shut tightly against the images that were already overcoming my thoughts.
The sound of the lids of the crypts beginning to groan. That deep, guttural scraping. Then came the rattling of skeletal fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on tomb edges.
No. It isn't real!
"The dagger responds to your essence," Mordred said, his voice interrupting the panic suddenly overwhelming me.
I blinked my eyes open, only to find his gaze already on me. I felt my pulse stammer.
I gripped the dagger tighter, the blade catching the braziers’ firelight and fracturing it into a kaleidoscope of color across the altar’s surface. My hands were steady. My heart was not.
If this was to be my end, I would meet it without shame.
I swallowed hard, ignoring the tremor at the base of my spine. My pulse pounded in my throat as I raised the dagger and poised it over my palm.
The room fell silent.
One cut. One drop. And the truth would follow.
I drew the dagger across my palm.
Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate, but quickly drowned in warmth. Blood welled from the cut and slid toward the altar—not sluggish or reluctant, but eager. It shimmered faintly as it fell, then moved into the channels of the altar. It didn't merely pool—itraced, swift as a river in spring thaw.
My blood flowed like molten silver, carving through the altar’s runes. With every heartbeat, the magic surged outward from the stone and into the chamber. I could feel the altar drinking in my essence, sifting through it, tasting it, trying to decipher what existed within.
Mordred's gaze stayed locked on mine. He didn’t blink; his gaze didn’t waver. From my peripheral vision, I could see Arthur taking a step forward, leaning in. And Lance stood beside him, chest heaving with his increased breathing—he too was afraid that my secret was about to be unleashed, even though he didn't know the truth of its nature.
"Blood of my blood, power of my line..." The words came unbidden, as if summoned by instinct rather than memory. "Reveal what flows through me, what magic is mine. From roots to branches, from source to stream, show me the truth that lies between."
My blood reached the altar’s heart—and somethingshifted.
A column of light erupted from the center, swirling upward until it widened into a suspended oval—a mirror in midair, gleaming with an eerie, living sheen.
My reflection shimmered.
Then changed.
Mist reached out from within the mirror, and from it stepped a woman—a vision wrought of water and moonlight. Her back was facing me as she stood by a still lake, blue-haired,her arms raised as the waters obeyed her command. Waves circled her like dancers, held aloft by will alone.
She turned around to face me then, and my breath caught.
