I wished I believed him. But all I felt was the crushing weight of betrayal. Even now, knowing how close I was to being exposed, my father still wanted me inside the lion’s den.
Why I allowed that truth to hurt me, I didn't know.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
-KAY-
The next day unfolded exactly as planned.
Throughout morning drills, I positioned myself just within Lioran’s periphery—a constant pressure at the edge of her awareness, like a thorn buried beneath armor. When she spoke with the others, I held her gaze across the yard, expression unreadable, watching her struggle to focus on the conversation while knowing I was observing her every move, every word, every gesture.
Her discipline surprised me. Even under silent siege, she didn’t falter. Every movement, every tone remained convincingly masculine—her disguise honed to the edge of steel.
But what intrigued me more were the men around her.
Galahad watched her too long, his exhausting and irksome goodness twitching at something he couldn’t name—ripples on water without sight of the stone. Percival drifted closer during sparring, protective without realizing it, like a dog sensing danger before the rest of the pack. And Lancelot… he kept his distance with the type of restraint men reserve for temptation they refuse to name. Even the Orkney brothers watched hermore than they should, no doubt drawn to her for a reason they did not know nor understand.
It confirmed what I suspected: Lioran had embedded herself in Camelot deeply. Her eventual exposure—when I chose to detonate it—would crack Camelot’s foundation like glass beneath a hammer. And I could not wait for that moment.
In fact, I would call my mood today downright giddy.
At midday meal, I pressed my advantage, reminding her just who was in charge.
When Arthur praised her, I added my voice—sweetened praise with just enough rot beneath the surface to curdle in the ears of the right listeners. Polished, deferential, and perfectly barbed. I watched her face as each word landed, waiting for the mask to slip—just a flicker, a twitch, anything.
Nothing. She held.
But I could feel the strain beneath her skin. And it pleased me. This whole game pleased me to no end because I was the one calling all the shots.
Where Arthur ruled through charisma and command—drawing men like moths to flame—I moved in shadows. My influence came not from strength or spectacle but necessity. I was high-born by circumstance, not merit—elevated, yet never revered. Close to the throne, but never central. A ghost at the edge of glory.
Camelot’s great hall made that fact unavoidable. Stone walls loomed with depictions of Arthur’s triumphs, each one a monument to my absence. At the high table, I sat three seats from the crown, a distance that may as well have been a mile. Light from the high windows gildedhisbrow. It never reached me.
But not for much longer.
Years of invisibility had sharpened my sight. What began as humiliation—measured against Arthur’s myth—became clarity.While knights chased fame in tourneys, I spun webs. Not for glory—but control.
Servants carried whispers. Messengers revealed who sent what and to whom. Stablehands remembered who left at midnight and why. My network wove itself through Camelot, quiet and unseen—yet unshakably strong. And it was all culminating—all the work I had done, the traps I had laid, all of it would soon bear fruit.
In the name of Lioran.
That evening, I sent instructions to Lioran—a sealed note in which the message was clear—just in case she had changed her mind. She needed to understand who now pulled the puppet strings.
Come tonight. Alone. And not as the knight. I want the woman, not the illusion. Defy me—and by dawn, Camelot will know exactly what lies beneath Sir Lioran’s armor.
I chose the messenger with the same art I applied to every operation—a plain-faced man, utterly forgettable, with a mind like a ledger. I had secured his loyalty years ago, paid for in silence over a gambling debt that nearly ended in blood. He would remember Lioran’s reaction in exact detail—every flinch, every pause—insight no written reply could match.
While I awaited his return, I reviewed the evening’s preparations.
My chambers were locked down—extra wards layered beneath mundane enchantments to detect even the subtlest magical intrusion. A sealed letter detailing Lioran’s secret sat with my most reliable agent, accompanied by explicit instructions:deliver to Arthur if I fail to cancel by morning.
Wine waited on the table, steeped with mild relaxants—enough to dull her magic and make it inoperable. Then the relaxant would also soften any physical resistance she might put up and blur her consent, thus making my seduction easier onme. Yes, there were occasions when a woman's defiance sparked something savage in me—the thrill of conquest, the satisfaction of breaking resistance. But tonight called for different pleasures. I wanted to fuck her swiftly, efficiently, without the drawn-out struggle that sometimes entertained me. It had been a while since I had released, and now the thought of filling her cunt with my seed thrilled me.
What if I were to get her with child? How perfectly ironic that would be—one of Arthur's knights carrying my bastard.
Hmm, no. That would play against my plans—at least for now. Perhaps it would be best to loose my cum across her face instead.
Regardless, the real anticipation lay in what would follow. Once her body had been claimed and her last illusions shattered, I could savor the true prize: watching her face as understanding dawned. Seeing the exact moment she realized how completely she'd been outmaneuvered, how thoroughly I'd stripped away not just her clothing but every pretense of control she'd maintained.
