“Tell me what you know about me,” I whispered, terrified to hear the answer.
She nodded, folding her hands in her lap as though recounting an ordinary evening.
“Your third night in Camelot, I dream-walked into your sleeping mind. You dreamed you were in Annwyn—training beneath the twisted trees where the light bends, your white hair loose in the twilight breeze. You wore your true form. And you answered to Merlin.”
My breath caught.
She smiled at my obvious concern. “I saw him correct your water form with that quiet patience of his."
"Then you know Merlin?"
"Of course." She paused. "Shall I return to your first question regarding what I know about you, or shall we follow this new line of discourse?"
"What you know about me."
She nodded. "While you were asleep, I watched you training with Corvin—a man who used to consider himself one of the king's own."
I felt my stomach drop at the mention of Corvin and breathed in deeply. "And then?"
"Then you dreamed of the Standing Stones—of your first crossing between realms. The fear, the awe... it was all there.”
"Perhaps my dreams were nothing more than unconscious lies."
She leaned forward slightly. “Dreams don’t lie. Theyreveal. And yours opened like a book. I knew almost immediately that you were Guinevere. You were from Annwyn. And you were here—for a purpose.”
My heart slammed in my chest.
“Does Arthur know any of this?” I breathed. “Have youtoldhim?”
She didn’t even blink. “If I had, you’d be rotting in the dungeons. Or dead—your head on a spike, your body burned to ash. You’d not be sitting here, wrapped in a stolen bedsheet, questioning my intentions.”
“Whatdo you want from me? Is this blackmail? Another form of leverage? Did you save me fromKayjust to own me yourself?”
Elenora’s expression changed—the warmth vanished, the mask slipping just enough to reveal cold offense beneath it. The room chilled. The candle flames flickered low, as if her power had exhaled.
“I amnothinglike Kay." Each word was razor-sharp. "Never compare us again."
I swallowed hard. The shift in energy was unmistakable. I lowered my voice as I realized how deeply I'd just offended her. “I apologize.”
A long silence stretched between us.
Then, finally, I found the courage to begin again. "First things first, you are clearly not the courtesan you pretend to be."
Elenora smiled—cold, proud, unrepentant. Then she rose from the chair with the poise of someone who had worneverymask—but bowed to none.
“A courtesan?" she laughed and then shook her head. "No, I am far, far more than that.”
As she stood there, smiling down at me, her appearance began to change. The honey-blonde hair darkened from its warm golden hue to the deepest raven black I'd ever seen, darker even than Lance's hair. But it wasn't merely black—threads of midnight blue wove through the darkness like veins of precious metal.
Her eyes followed; the warm brown irises that had seemed so inviting sharpened and brightened, transforming into the most piercing emerald green, shot through with flecks of gold.
But it was more than just her coloring—her bone structure seemed to refine itself before my eyes as well. Her cheekbones rose higher, creating elegant shadows across her face, while her lips grew fuller and took on a more vivid coloration, as if stained with wine. The soft, approachable features of Elenora the courtesan melted away, replaced by something far more aristocratic and dangerous.
Even her posture underwent a complete transformation. Where before she had carried herself with the practiced sensuality of a woman who lived by pleasing others, now her shoulders pulled back with an unconscious, regal strength. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted slightly, and suddenly she commanded the space around her with the authority of someone born to power.
This woman, whoever she was, radiated danger and majesty in equal measure. This was no mere courtesan. This wasa sorceress revealed—powerful, unveiled, and breathtakingly beautiful.
I stood, clutching the sheet tighter around myself, uncertain whether she was friend or foe. A storm of fear and fascination surged through me as I stared at her. My fingers twitched with the impulse to reach out, to touch her and see if the vision was real, if her skin was actually warm or the cold porcelain it appeared to be. But something warned me that touching her might be like reaching into fire—beautiful, yes, but consuming, destructive, and painful.
