If I found something, I could take whatever action it required. Then perhaps my thoughts would finally quiet. Then perhaps I could bury this obsession and return to the man I had always been.
And if I found nothing?
I couldn't think about what that might mean.
I need certainty,I told myself, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.One way or another.
The opportunity came that afternoon like a gift from the gods—or a trap set by fate. I was passing the training yard when I heard Percival’s voice rising above the clatter of practice swords, cheerfully challenging Lioran to spar. Such a session would last at least an hour—longer, given Percival’s boundless enthusiasmand maddening tendency to overanalyze every move like a scholar dissecting a poem.
The point was: it would give me more than enough time.
Arthur remained entangled in council meetings regarding the latest northern border disputes, and the servants were still preparing supper in the lower halls. The corridor leading to the knights' quarters would be temporarily deserted. The timing could not have been more perfect.
From the shadow of a nearby archway, I watched as Lioran nodded, following Percival toward the far end of the training yard. Their voices trailed off into the distance, muffled by laughter and the clink of steel.
My chest tightened with a strange cocktail of guilt and anticipation.
I waited. Counted thirty heartbeats. Then I moved.
I strode through Camelot’s stone arteries with confidence. No one questioned my presence—I was Arthur’s First Knight, the man entrusted with more authority than most of the High Council. My steps echoed with memory. These halls had shaped me as surely as sword and shield, their shadows having borne witness to every transformation I’d endured—from ward to warrior to legend.
There wasn’t a corner of this keep I hadn’t explored, a door I couldn’t unlock, a passage I hadn’t once slipped through in boyhood daring. The castle and I knew each other too well for secrets.
Lioran's quarters lay in the eastern wing, where the candidates of the Shadow Trials were housed—a deliberate placement that kept them separate yet close enough for observation. The corridor stretched before me, cool and hushed, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow above. Shafts of late afternoon light streamed through the narrow arched windows that punctuated the outer wall at regular intervals, each beamcutting through the dimness to gild the ancient stone in burnished gold. Dust motes danced lazily in the illuminated air, the only movement in the stillness.
I paused at the intersection where this hallway met the main thoroughfare, my back pressed firmly against the cold stone wall. The rough texture of the blocks caught at the fabric of my tunic as I held myself motionless, every sense heightened. My eyes swept the length of both passages, scanning methodically for any visitors who might complicate my mission.
A lone servant appeared at the far end of the corridor, her arms laden with fresh linens that she clutched protectively against her chest. Her eyes remained fixed straight ahead, focused on her destination with the single-minded determination of someone who had learned that curiosity in these halls could be dangerous. She disappeared around the corner without so much as a glance in my direction, her soft footsteps fading into the ambient silence.
Good.
When I was certain I was alone, I approached the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor. The iron handle was worn smooth by countless hands, and the wood itself bore the patina of age—dark, solid, and reassuring in its permanence. My fingers moved deliberately to the leather pouch at my belt, drawing out a slender roll of metal picks that caught the dying afternoon light.
I'd borrowed these from the castle locksmith earlier that morning, spinning him an elaborate tale about a jammed chest in my chambers that contained important documents for the trials. The old man had barely looked up from his anvil, his weathered face creased with the kind of distraction that spoke of a mind wholly absorbed in his craft. He'd waved me off with implicit trust, muttering something about temperamental locks and the damp affecting the mechanisms.
Arthur's First Knight needs tools? Then he gets them, no questions asked.
The lock itself was rudimentary—a simple mechanism meant for privacy rather than true defense against determined intrusion. My fingers worked efficiently, quickly feeling for the subtle resistance of each tumbler as I guided the picks into place.
One by one, the tumblers clicked into alignment, each sound somehow both loud in my ears and utterly quiet in the stone corridor beyond. My heart hammered as I worked, extremely aware of every small noise—the whisper of fabric as I shifted position, the soft scrape of metal against metal, even my own carefully controlled breathing.
Finally, the last pin fell into place with a satisfying click, and I felt the mechanism give way beneath my touch. The handle turned smoothly, well-oiled hinges moving without so much as a whisper of protest.
I slipped inside, my pulse thundering in my ears.
The door closed behind me with a soft thunk, and the quiet that settled around me was immediate and absolute.
The room was modest, smaller than my own, yet neat and thoughtfully arranged. A narrow bed stood in one corner, opposite a writing table and a washbasin with a mirror. A wooden chest sat at the foot of the bed. A single tapestry covered the wall—the kind meant less to decorate than to hide the damp chill of stone.
I moved carefully, eyes flicking across every surface. No personal sigils, no family crest, nothing of a personal nature. Spartan. Clean. Just like Lioran himself.
I started at the table.
Quills, ink, fresh parchment. A copy ofThe Knight’s Codex, just like every other candidate received at the start of the trials. Nothing more. No letters. No journals. No folded messages scrawled with secret confessions. Not even a personal note.
I turned to the clothing chest next. It opened easily, revealing neatly folded tunics, gambesons, and braies. Undergarments, all modest. The fabric was fine—better than most provincials could afford—but not ostentatious. Practical. Durable. Respectable quality. And small. So very small.
I fought against the dangerous urge that clawed at my chest—the overwhelming compulsion to lift one of those soft tunics to my face, to breathe in the scent that clung to the fabric—always the scent of lavender with something unnameable just beneath it. Even now, standing here in the stillness of his chamber, I could detect that faint, elusive fragrance that seemed to follow Lioran wherever he went. It was subtle—not the heavy musk of leather and sweat that permeated most knights' quarters, but something altogether different. Something that made my pulse quicken in ways I didn't dare examine, couldn't examine because then I was left with questions I couldn't answer—didn't want to answer.
