The corridor stretched empty before me—Kay had ensured no servants or guards lingered nearby. I paused at his door, my hand hovering inches from the wood as I weighed one final time whether any escape remained.
But none did. So, I would have to play Kay's game. Yes, tonight I would play, and tonight I would lose.
I drew a long breath, steadying myself, then knocked—once, softly.
“Enter. And be certain you’re alone.”
Kay’s voice was low, composed. Too composed.
I opened the latch, stepped inside, and halted, momentarily disoriented by the room's unexpected grandeur. The chamber before me was a stark reminder of the vast gulf between Kay's station as the king's foster brother and the rest of the candidates. The space sprawled easily twice the size of my modest quarters,perhaps three times, with soaring ceilings that disappeared into shadow above the candlelight's reach.
A massive four-poster bed dominated the far wall, its frame carved from what appeared to be ebony. Rich burgundy velvets and midnight blue silks covered the bed in layers of luxury that spoke of wealth I had never known.
Tapestries lined the walls between tall windows while thick fur rugs—wolf, bear, and creatures I couldn't identify—covered nearly every inch of the polished stone floor, their pelts so deep my slippers sank slightly with each step.
The hearth had burned down to embers. Now only a few candles flickered in silver holders, their glow soft and intimate, as if this were a lover’s room, not a trap. The air was thick with the scent of wine, smoke, and something darker—him.
On a carved oak table sat two goblets, one already half-empty, the other untouched. The rim bore the faint smudge of his lips.
“Lock the door,” he said.
I hesitated, then, realizing I had no other alternatives, obeyed. The bolt slid into place with a dull, finalthud—the sound of my options vanishing.
Just get through this, Guin,I told myself for the nth time.
When I turned back, my feet wouldn’t move. The room suddenly felt smaller. My fingers curled into fists inside my cloak, a tremor barely contained.
“Come closer."
He stood by the window, silhouetted in the candlelight, no armor, no weapons—just control. His eyes raked over me with that same cold detachment I had seen a dozen times in the training yard. But now it pinned me in place.
“Drop the cloak.”
The words landed like iron.
My hand moved to the clasp at my throat. One breath. Then another. Then the click of release. The cloak slid from my shoulders and pooled at my feet.
I stood in a plain tunic and braies—exposed, no longer Sir Lioran, but Guinevere—delivering herself to her fate.
“So,” he said, voice smooth with mockery as he took me in from head to toe, “the great knight finally reveals her true face.”
He stepped forward as his eyes raked over me with deliberate slowness, lingering on every curve my tunic failed to hide. He circled like a predator—each step measured, each glance invasive. Where the fabric clung to my waist and breasts, his gaze lingered too long.
He studied me like a merchant inspecting a prize—calculating, cold.
“I was correct. You are even more stunning than I imagined.”
He stopped beside me. I felt him looking at me—my hair, my eyes. He was inspecting me like I was a horse at auction.
“Silver-white hair. Violet eyes,” he said, more to himself than to me. “No wonder you hid behind so much magic. Arthur’s court has seen queens, nobles, emissaries… but none quite like you.”
His hand twitched at his side, his fingers curling and uncurling as though he was tempted to touch me—but was resisting, for now.
Then he froze.
A flicker of something passed across his face—recognition, dawning like sunlight through fog. A low chuckle escaped him, soft at first. Then it built into something darker.
“I’ll be damned,” he said at last, shaking his head as a grin spread slowly and poisonously across his face. His fingers swept through his red-streaked hair as he stared at me, his expressionnow one of extreme amusement. “I'll be fucking damned. You’reher.”
