The spell activated the moment his fingers touched the chalice.
A soft golden light pulsed above the bowl, warm and inviting like late-summer sunshine. The memory it embodied shimmered with healing energy, suffused with love and comfort so tangible it brought tears to my eyes. Someone had been saved in that moment—of that I was certain—the sacrifice was clear. This wasn’t just magic—this was hope, offered up willingly.
The golden light began to break apart, drifting into the air like dandelion seeds on a breeze. Percival flinched—only slightly, just a tightening around the eyes—but I saw it. I knew his expressions well enough by now to recognize what he was trying to hide.
He had given something precious—possibly the most important memory he had. And I ached for him. But I couldn't ache for him for long because, before I knew it, it was my turn.
The summons didn’t come aloud—it didn’t need to. The weight of it was already pressing on my shoulders as I stepped forward. Each footfall felt like moving through deep water, slow and resistant, the current of dread pulling at my limbs. The marble floor beneath my boots seemed to stretch endlessly, the distance between myself and the silver chalice expanding with each of my thunderous heartbeats.
Still, I had to appear confident. I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and maintained the steady stride of someone unafraid. All eyes were on me, watching for hesitation, for weakness—for anything that might mark me as unworthy. I could feel Kay's beady eyes drilling into me with hatred. I refused to look at him.
Instead, I focused on the trial ahead, on what memory I could give. It had to be meaningful—enough to appear to be a true sacrifice, enough to evoke emotion on my face—but not so intimate that it risked exposing my identity. The irony wasn’t lost on me: to succeed in this trial of honesty, I had to execute a very delicate deception.
My fingers twitched, trembling faintly at my sides. I curled them into fists to still the motion, to silence my body before it could betray my heart.
The silver chalice felt warm beneath my palms—surprisingly so.
Mordred’s spell activated the moment I touched it, and I felt the magic slide into my mind like a silk-threaded hook,searching—not for what Ioffered, but for what I treasured most.
Panic coiled in my chest.
I'd believed each knight chose which memory to surrender, some curated offering meant to balance authenticity with secrecy. But now I understood:Ididn'tchoose—the spellchose. And for one terrible heartbeat, I feared it would strip bare everything—my connection to Merlin, my mother’s bloodline, my meeting with Morgan, or worse, reveal the web of lies I’d so carefully spun into the shape of a man named Lioran.
But it didn’t.
Instead, pale blue mist rose from my hands and coalesced into an image so gentle, so unguarded, that my chest tightened with something like grief.
A little girl with white-blonde hair played beside a stream near my adoptive parents’ dairy farm. Bare feet splashed in the shallows, sending droplets glittering like diamonds through the amber afternoon light. Her simple, homespun dress was hiked up and tucked into her belt to keep it dry, though damp patches revealed her earlier failed attempts.
She laughed—freely, joyously—as she chased minnows with cupped hands. Her eyes—my eyes—sparkled with a delight so unfiltered it made my throat tighten. This was a version of me untouched by magic, untouched by fear, unaware that her world would soon fracture.
This child had no idea that a storm brewed within her, that one day, on her twentieth year, her magic would escape in an uncontrollable surge and bring ruin to everything and everyone she loved. She didn't yet know about the whispers that would haunt her or the masks she’d learn to wear to survive in a kingdom that punished girls like her.
The memory was precious to me precisely because it was whole. It held no shame, no secret, no sorrow. It was one of the last perfect days—just a girl playing in the sunshine, beloved and safe, her biggest concern being whether she’d return home in time for supper.
I could almost smell the sweet grass lining the banks, the faint tang of cowhide from the farm beyond. I could almost feel the soft weight of a breeze stirring my hair and hear the chirr of insects overhead. I hadn't thought of this day in years, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to keep it, to cherish it.
But that was not the trial.
Behind me, I could feel the gaze of Arthur, of Mordred, of my fellow candidates—all watching, all waiting.
I spared a single glance toward the image, momentarily anxious someone might recognize the girl’s pale hair. But I reminded myself: Sir Lioran bore similar coloring. They’dassume this was a sister, a cousin, a child dear to me. Nothing more, or so I hoped. Or perhaps the Moonshard would camouflage this memory entirely.
“Are you willing to sacrifice this particular memory, Sir Lioran?” Mordred’s voice broke the silence, reverent and absolute.
I turned to look at him, knowing the sacrifice had to be made.
The memory hung there—suspended and vulnerable—a shard of my true self exposed before a room full of strangers.
This wasn’t just a memory. It was an anchor. A fragment of self untouched by expectation, deception, or duty. A single, shining moment when I’d been myself, when I'd been free. Happy.
But I had to let it go.
“Yes,” I whispered, so softly the chalice seemed to drink the word from my lips.
I watched as the image began to dissolve. The little girl by the stream—laughing, barefoot, crowned with wildflowers—began to blur at the edges. Her shape wavered, softened. The skinned knees, the sunlight on her hair, the pure, unguarded joy… all fading into indistinct mist.
The stream’s gurgle, once so vivid, now echoed faintly, without clarity. The warmth of the sun on my skin, the exact blue of the sky, the tug of wet grass underfoot—all slipped away like water through cupped hands. What remained was hollow.
