That moment of perfect comprehension—when she understood that everything she'd thought she was maneuvering toward had been usurped by me—that was what I hungered for most. When the hunter becomes the hunted.
This was the contrast between Arthur’s power and mine. He ruled by divine right and natural charm. Lancelot dazzled with swordsmanship. I had no such gifts. But I’d taken the lesser tools fate gave me—observation, discipline, strategy—and forged them into something sharper, something deadlier.
Arthur’s court had always recoiled from what I represented—a necessary function wrapped in discomfort. I was the sewer beneath the palace: unseen, indispensable, and condemned all the same. That hypocrisy never stopped grating.
Well, not for much longer. Soon the sewer rat would be sitting at the head of the table.
The servant returned.
Lioran had agreed to the meeting.
The details—her pallor, the tremor in her hands, the long silence before accepting—were everything I needed to hear. Lioran hadn’t refused. Mission outweighed pride. Whatever had brought her to Camelot was worth the cost.
She would come. That was all that mattered.
As I prepared for the evening's encounter, I allowed myself to explore my motivations that existed beyond strategic advantage, to examine the deeper currents that drove my actions, the ugly drives I’d learned to dress as reason. This was more than politics or appetite. It was the need to dominate someone whom Arthur had taken under his wing. It was the need to taste the favors of a woman whom Lancelot was clearly besotted with.
Night settled over Camelot. Torches flamed along the corridors; guards kept their dull, predictable rounds. I checked my chambers once more—locks, wards. The wine gleamed like amber at the center of the room. The fire burned low, encouraging convenient darkness. Everything sat where it would do the most damage.
The hour came. I lowered myself into the chair with the slow patience of a predator. Anticipation pressed behind my ribs like a held breath.
Whatever information she provided (and I was determined to get to the bottom of exactly why she was here), whatever leverage her secret created, whatever satisfaction her submission offered—all would serve my carefully constructed position within Camelot's complex power structure. The game that had begun with my discovery of her true identity would continue long after tonight's encounter, each revelation andsubmission building toward a larger transformation in my status and influence.
Lioran had come to Camelot thinking herself clever. By dawn, she would know what it cost to underestimate Arthur’s foster brother—the shadow who saw the fractures others missed and learned to break them, one precise strike at a time.
In the dim corridors of memory, I still saw my younger self watching Arthur lift the sword to cheers and glory—a boy crowned by fate while I, the elder, stood sidelined. I had studied, trained, and prepared. He had not. That moment, like so many others carved from years of being second-best, fed the quiet fire in my chest—a fire banked but never extinguished.
Tonight, I would taste a fragment of the power that had always been denied me. Tomorrow, I would seize more. The future belonged not to the golden boy but to the one who watched, waited, and struck where others were blind.
I took a slow sip of my wine—the one I hadn't tampered with—savoring its weight and the darker flavor of what was coming. Soon, the woman calling herself Lioran would arrive. And with her, new doors would open—corridors I had never been allowed to walk.
Let Arthur have his crown and his legends.
I would take the shadows.
And tonight, the shadows would give me their first true reward.
-GUIN-
Kay’s ultimatum carried me down the corridor like a condemned prisoner. Each step toward his chambers felt like Iwas walking into a noose. The air grew colder, the torchlight jittering across stone walls that leaned in, shadows stretching long and cruel.
My stomach churned as my mind clawed at possible escapes, but Kay had left no cracks to slip through. One whisper from him to Arthur—and everything I had built would collapse.
And that was the reason I had come as Kay had demanded—not as Sir Lioran, but as myself. My white hair was currently hidden beneath a hood, my cloak drawn tight. I moved like a ghost, pressing into the walls whenever footsteps echoed. Luckily, Kay's chamber was not far from mine. Even so, the weight of my identity—my true self—felt heavier than any armor I'd ever had to wear.
This was not how I’d dreamed of this moment—losing my maidenhead to a man like Kay. I'd never imagined sharing such a private part of myself with a man I despised. And certainly not as a bargain struck for my survival. Once—long ago—I’d imagined my first time with a man would be nothing short of romantic: a tender encounter filled with gentle touches and whispered promises. I'd dreamed of devotion spoken in hushed tones, of eyes that held love rather than calculation, of hands that sought to cherish rather than claim. In those girlish fantasies, this choice would have been mine. My desire would have been given freely to someone who treasured what I offered.
Yes, Corvin's image had surfaced in such tender dreams more than once, though I knew perfectly well he hardly possessed a romantic soul. Those fantasies were nothing more than wishful thinking—girlish imaginings with no foundation in reality. Corvin was as hardened and unyielding as any knight who had ever drawn breath, his edges sharpened by years of violence. He was battle-tested, proven in blood and steel, forged in Camelot, where survival meant killing sentiment before it could kill you.
There was no room for tenderness in a man like that. Still, in the deepest hours of night when sleep eluded me, my mind had wandered to thoughts of his strong hands—not wielding weapons, but tracing reverent paths across my skin. But those were the dreams of a girl who no longer existed. The woman I had become understood that such fantasies were luxuries I could not afford.
My fingers brushed the dagger beneath my tunic. Cold metal. A sliver of false courage. I could bury it in Kay's throat. I could end this before it ever started. But then I remembered the letter. I had no doubt Kay truly held a letter ready to expose me—ready to destroy me.
So no, I couldn’t kill him. Not tonight anyway.
But the thought of it steadied me all the same.
The chill of the evening seeped through the castle walls, but the cold sweat beading on my forehead came from something far worse than the temperature.
