The scent was delicate, almost floral, like morning air touched with lavender or the first hint of spring rain on fresh earth. It was a fragrance that seemed too refined for a knight, too gentle for someone who wielded sword and shield in Arthur's service. Each time I'd caught that whisper of it during training or in the Great Hall, it had left me strangely unsettled, as if something fundamental about my understanding of the world had shifted just slightly off its axis.
My hands trembled as I carefully folded the last tunic, forcing myself to maintain the precise arrangement I'd found. The rational part of my mind—the part trained in logic and duty—insisted this meant nothing. Men could appreciate fine soaps and could choose to mask the harsh realities of knighthood with more pleasant scents. Just as men came in all shapes and sizes, there was nothing unusual about a man who just happenedto have the proportions of a woman. There were explanations, reasonable ones, for every detail that seemed out of place.
Still… nothing thatexplainedanything.
No artifacts of northern nobility might explain his relationship with the noble woman who had supported his being here. No coded correspondence. Actually, nothing written at all. No tokens of affection between Lioran and another man. No signs of magic use. Nothing that would reveal what Lioran might be hiding—if he was hiding anything at all.
And yet… Iknewthere was something.
BecauseIfelt it every time I looked at him. I could feel the secrets eating away at him. I didn't know how because it wasn't as though my magic revealed such things. But I could feel this truth deeply in my bones all the same.
As I replaced the clothing with care, masking any sign of my intrusion, shame crawled up my spine like a living thing—each vertebra burning with the weight of my betrayal.
Invading a fellow knight’s privacy, driven by confusion and dreams I could neither understand nor control—what manner of man had I become? The black armor I wore, the sigil I bore, the ideals I was sworn to uphold—they all felt like mockery now, hollow symbols wrapped around a hypocrite.
Arthur’s face rose unbidden in my mind—those clear, unwavering eyes that always saw too much. He had shaped me, guided me, trusted me with more than any man save perhaps Merlin himself. What would he say if he saw me now, rifling through another knight’s belongings like a jealous lover or a common spy?
"This was a mistake,"I whispered, already turning toward the door.
Then came the footsteps.
They halted me mid-step, freezing my blood.
Measured. Steady. Not a meandering servant or drunk squire. No, these steps were purposeful.
Panic surged through me like a sudden tide. The window offered only a lethal drop to the cobblestones below. The door, thick and unyielding, stood between me and the hallway—but now also between me and ruin. Because if I were caught—what would my defense be? Nothing, for I didn't have one.
I spun, scanning the room—and then I saw it.
The tapestry.
In three desperate strides, I was behind it, pressing myself flat against the cold stone wall. The tapestry's heavy wool covered me from head to toe but scratched against my cheek as I tried to make myself as small as possible, every muscle coiled with tension. The space was cramped and suffocating, the musty scent of old fabric filling my lungs and making me want to sneeze—a disaster I couldn't afford.
The door creaked open with agonizing slowness, each protest of the hinges like thunder in my ears. From my precarious hiding place, I carefully peeked around the frayed edge of the heavy fabric to see Lioran entering. The door clicked softly shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the room like a gavel. I barely breathed.
He looked… tired. Shoulders low, his movements slow and weighted. He locked the door, then—quietly, carefully—uttered something beneath his breath. A magical ward. I felt it settle over the room, and with it came a shift in the air—subtle, tingling.
He moved toward the mirror.
From behind the tapestry, I could see only his profile, half-shadowed in the angled light, but it was enough.
Lioran stood still for a long moment, staring at his reflection. Then his shoulders lifted—rolled back in a gesturethat felt like surrender. Not weakness. Surrender. Like someone laying down a weapon they’d held too long.
He closed his eyes and held his hands up on either side of him, palms facing the ceiling. Power stirred in the chamber, not violent or sudden but patient and deliberate.
Then he… changed.
It wasn't the dramatic spectacle of court magic—no flash of blinding light or thunderous explosion. Instead, it was something intimate. A soft unraveling that began at his fingertips and spread like ripples across still water. The illusion didn't shatter; it simply dissolved, falling away like silk slipping from bare skin.
And standing in his place—no,herplace—was a woman.
I could barely believe what my eyes were reporting to my stunned mind. My heart began to thunder in earnest, each beat echoing the complete shock and confusion that was traveling through me. I blinked hard, certain I was dreaming or perhaps under some enchantment myself, but the vision before me remained unchanged, undeniably real. My thoughts scattered, unable to find purchase on anything solid as I struggled to reconcile this impossible truth with everything I thought I knew.
The woman was small, radiant, and unapologetically feminine. Silver-white hair tumbled down her back in shining waves, freed from whatever spell had bound it. Her face… Gods above,her face. Delicate and sharp in equal measure—cheekbones catching the light like cut crystal, lips full and slightly parted as though she’d just taken her first breath in days.
And her eyes.
Violet. Bright. Stunning.
