But what now? What did this mean for her—and for me?
This wasn’t mere subterfuge. Her presence in Camelot, disguised as a knight, was treason. Arthur’s decree was clear: no woman could take up arms as a knight in his realm. And yet… she’d not only dared—she'd excelled. She'd fought with honor, borne the trials with grace, matched her peers in strength, and surpassed many others who were no longer here.
And then there was that hair and those eyes. That unmistakable white and violet—just as Arthur had described. The same features he'd spoken of with haunted reverence after the sword rejected his hand and yielded instead to the mysterious maiden.
Could it be her?
Of course it’s her, I nearly spat at myself.
The woman in Lioran’s skin and the woman who drew Excalibur—they were one and the same. There could be no doubt.
Suddenly, her presence in Camelot wasn’t just dangerous. It was cataclysmic.
Why come here? Why risk everything to compete in Arthur’s trials? Was she Merlin’s agent, sent in secret to infiltrate and destroy from within? Or was she a member of the Northern Rebellion, as Arthur suspected? If either were the case, what did she plan to do with the knowledge that she'd pulled Excalibur? Was she planning on taking Arthur's throne?
Yet... nothing in her behavior suggested sabotage. She'd shown honor—true honor—in every task. Where others sought glory, she served. Where others inflicted pain, she chose mercy. I'd seen it. Arthur had seen it. We'dfeltit. She had the makings of a knight in every way that mattered—except the one the law forbade.
And still—above all the questions, the implications, the looming threat—remained the most damning truth of all:she wanted me. Desired me with such fervor that she'd spoken my name in the throes of her own fantasy.
Myname.
I knew without a doubt that the moment would haunt me forever, as would the heat it stirred within me. I should have been repulsed. I should have walked away from her and straight to Arthur, revealed everything.
But I hadn’t. I couldn’t.
Because the truth was—I wanted her too—more than I’d ever wanted anyone.
-LANCE-
After supper, I immediately retired to my quarters, feigning stomach upset. There I spent hours in silent contemplation, weighing duty against feelings that threatened to tear me apart. As Arthur's First Knight, my course should have been clear—report the impostor immediately. The king's laws allowed for no exceptions.
And yet, I delayed.
I told myself I needed more evidence; that accusing a knight—no, a woman—of such a crime without incontrovertible proof would be irresponsible, unjust, dangerous. These were the excuses I crafted like a master blacksmith shaping a blade—flawless in design, yet forged to protect not the realm, buther.
Because I knew exactly what her punishment would be.
Execution.
The thought haunted me with the clarity of a prophecy: her white hair swept aside, the executioner’s shadow falling across that proud, graceful neck. I could see the gleam of the blade as the crowd watched, eager for justice. I could see Arthur, seated high above, his expression unreadable, as always. And I could see myself—helpless.
Or worse—responsible.
The thought made me physically ill. The bitter irony nearly choked me—I’d witnessed countless executions without flinching, delivered death without hesitation when it was called for—yet this woman’s imagined death struck at something so deep, so tender within me, I could barely breathe.
Because it cannot happen,I told myself.Because she pulled the sword from the stone.
And not just any sword—thesword. Excalibur. The kingmaker.
If the blade had accepted her, could I condemn her?
But did the blade accept her?I asked myself. Arthur certainly believed she'd pulled the sword from the stone, but I hadn't seen it for myself. Could it be a simple misunderstanding? Had Arthur really seen what he believed he had? With the dragon taking up residence within him, he was changed. Perhaps his own mind couldn't be trusted any longer. What was more, Arthur had said himself that the act of her pulling the sword could have been nothing more than magic, than artifice. Perhaps it wasn't real. Wasn't true. Perhaps it was as much a lie as she, herself, was.
My hands clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms. Despite every reason to turn her in—despite every law she'd broken—every instinct I possessed told me toprotecther.
"What has fucking happened to me?" I whispered, my voice hollow in the silence.
The answer came slowly, reluctantly. It had started long before I’d glimpsed her true form. With every trial, with every act of discipline and valor, I'd seen something in Lioran that called to me: courage, compassion, a rare steadiness of heart. And now I understood—it wasn’t Lioran I’d admired.
