Mordred nodded. "She is of advanced age, Sire, and appears to be rather ill."
"Any connections between Yseldra and Carlisle?"
Mordred shook his head. "None that I could uncover, nor my spies, Majesty."
The Royal Archmage's tone carried that familiar note of clinical detachment, as though he were discussing the weather rather than potential threats to my kingdom. Yet I had known Mordred long enough to recognize the subtle undercurrents in his carefully modulated voice—the slight hesitation before certain words, the way his fingers twitched almost imperceptibly when he had his own concerns.
"Then there is no word regarding Lioran's family? No connections?"
"None that my people could uncover." Mordred paused. "Though I should note—the north remains... resistant to certain forms of inquiry. Carlisle's influence runs deep in those regions. If someone wished to hide in plain sight, they could hardly choose better territory."
"You suspect Lioran of working with Carlisle?"
"No," he answered quickly. "I suspect nothing." Mordred's voice remained infuriatingly neutral. "But I find the coincidence notable. A talented unknown from the north, arriving precisely when we need knights loyal to the crown. Carlisle would be a fool not to attempt to place his own candidate among our ranks."
It was the same argument I had made to myself countless times over the past few weeks, the question that gnawed at me in the quiet hours before dawn when sleep eluded my grasp. What if Lioran were indeed a plant—one of Carlisle's carefully groomed agents, sent to work his way into my confidence only to undermine me from within? The possibility should have filled me with cold certainty, should have prompted immediate action to root out the threat.
And yet, despite every logical reason to embrace such suspicions, I found myself unable to believe that theory fully. A spy might master deception, might learn to project loyalty and courage, but there had been moments in our conversations where I glimpsed something raw and unguarded beneath the surface. Something that felt too genuine to be mere performance.
The dragon stirred restlessly in my chest, its voice a low rumble of possessive certainty.
Ours,it whispered, as it had begun to do with increasing frequency whenever my thoughts turned to the young knight.Not theirs. Ours.
Strange that the dragon should be possessive toward the young knight.
I looked at Mordred. "Yet you discovered no proof linking Carlisle to Lioran?"
"None."
I nodded. "Continue to keep a close watch on him."
Mordred nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."
CHAPTER FORTY
-GUIN-
My bedchamber felt stifling, the air thick with the weight of all the revelations I’d endured earlier.
I paced back and forth, the soft thud of my boots against the stone floor echoing like the hammering of my heart. Each step sent tremors through the room, disturbing the water in the basin—droplets leaping and splashing as if reacting to the storm brewing inside me.
Why hadn’t Merlin told me the truth?
The question roared through my mind, and I clenched my fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface like a geyser. All those years in Annwyn under his watchful eye—had I ever truly been a student? Or had I always been a tool? A weapon? A living plan disguised as a person? No, not as a person—his daughter!
The anger flared, and the basin erupted—water rising in chaotic arcs, circling me like wild spirits. I forced it down, my jaw tightening.
Breathe, Guin. You will get through this. Like you always have.
With effort, I found my breath again—deep and steadying. But the ache didn’t fade. Betrayal knotted with confusion inside me, each strand choking the air from me. Merlin had always spoken of legacy, of duty—always circling the truth but never stepping into it.
I halted before the basin, catching sight of my reflection. My violet eyes stared back at me and soon filled with tears, even though I batted them back furiously. I didn't want to cry—didn't want to give in to the sadness that was already consuming me. But it didn't seem like my body was listening because soon the tears came even stronger—a steady stream bleeding from my eyes.
Why hadn't Merlin claimed me as his own blood? Why hadn't he told me the truth? Was he ashamed of me? Was I someone he couldn't respect? Was he disappointed in me?
The questions struck harder than I expected them to. Had my own father withheld the truth because I was not the daughter he hoped I could be? If that was the case, was this whole mission just a reason to get rid of me? Had it been doomed before I'd ever even arrived?
The room felt smaller by the second.
