Emptiness bloomed quietly in my chest, a cold space where comfort used to live. It was a small death, this willing surrender of something sacred. I hadn’t expected the ache to feel so physical, the grief so sharp. That perfect day—unmarked by magic, untouched by secrets—was gone. Only the echo remained.
As the last threads of the memory vanished, the released magic burst through the chapel, lighting every stained-glass window with sudden brilliance. Then, just as quickly, it faded. Shadows reclaimed the space. Silence returned.
I stepped away from the altar, knowing something had been taken from me but not knowing what. The memory was gone, and my place in the trial secured. But something tugged at the edges of my mind—a whisper of unease. Had I revealed more than I intended? Would someone look too closely at whatever memory I'd given up? Had the Moonshard protected me?
I forced my steps to remain steady, my expression unchanged.
But inside, I mourned the loss of whatever part of me I'd just sacrificed. I couldn't recall what the memory was, now that it had been taken from me, just that there was an emptiness in me that hadn't been there before.
As the remaining candidates completed their trials, I became increasingly aware of someone's gaze fixed on me. It clung to my skin like the weight of a blade at my back—subtle at first, then unmistakable.
The fine hairs on my arms rose beneath my armor, as if warning me of something unseen. At first, I was afraid it was Sir Kay, watching from the shadows with his sharp-edged stare. But when I finally mustered the courage to glance over my shoulder, I found not him—but Lance.
He stood apart from the other observers, arms crossed, shoulders squared. Unlike the rest, who shifted their focus between candidates with the ease of casual interest, Lance watched me alone—unblinking, unmoving. There was something unsettling in the way his gaze held mine, something that reached through the noise and light and fixed me in place.
Not suspicion, exactly. Not even recognition. Something quieter. Sharper. Hungrier.
When our eyes met, his narrowed slightly. The corner of his mouth twitched—too subtle to be a smile, too soft to be a sneer. The expression on his face made me nervous, and I looked away, pulse thrumming in my throat, but the sense of exposure lingered. Whatever he’d seen—on my face, in my stance, or perhaps in the nature of the memory I’d surrendered—had captured his attention.
Cold dread crept down my spine in slow, deliberate coils. Lance was no courtier with petty grudges or political aspirations. He was Arthur’s shadow—his most trusted knight, his executioner in times of need. And unlike Kay, who might hoard secrets for leverage or sport, Lance was a man of clean decisions and immediate action. If he suspected deception, he wouldn't wait. He would act.
You're becoming paranoid,I told myself.Just because Kay found out the truth doesn't mean everyone else knows. As far as Lance is concerned, nothing has changed. You are still Lioran. You're still a man.
I kept my head bowed for the rest of the ceremony, focusing on the rhythm of my breath and the weight of my own heartbeat. But even then, I felt it—that gaze, steady and unrelenting. Lance was watching me. Measuring me—as though he were solving a puzzle. And I didn't know why.
When the final sacrifice dissolved and silence fell once more, Arthur stepped forward.
"What you have surrendered today can never be reclaimed," the king intoned, his voice echoing through the vaulted chamber. "Such is the nature of true sacrifice. Remember this feeling—the hollowness where something precious once resided. In service to Camelot, you may experience it again."
The words fell like distant bells, dulled by the roar of my own thoughts. I barely heard him. I was still trapped in the shadow of Lance’s stare.
When we were dismissed, I stepped quickly to the front of the line—anything to put distance between us, anything to escape the weight of that gaze.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
-LANCE-
Istood at Arthur's side during the ceremony, but my attention had narrowed, singular and unwavering—fixed on Lioran.
The room faded around me—the rich tapestries hanging from stone walls, the flickering torchlight, the low murmur of voices and rustle of ceremonial robes—all of it became irrelevant compared toher. Every movement she made drew my gaze. The subtle shift of her weight from one foot to the other. The barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest. The way her hands remained perfectly still at her sides, betraying none of the tension I sensed coiled within her frame.
I couldn't seem to help it. My eyes traced the line of her jaw beneath the ceremonial helm, searching for any telltale sign of what lay hidden beneath that flawless knightly facade. Arthur's voice droned on beside me, speaking the words of knighthood, but the sound felt distant and muffled.
As she stepped toward the altar, I couldn’t look away. The squared shoulders, the measured stride, the practiced stillness—perfectly knightly, yes. But beneath the layers of armor andpoise, I knew there was something else. Something undeniably feminine. Something undeniably exquisite.
And then, unbidden, the memory of her returned—sharp and treacherous.
Her bedchamber. Moonlight poured through the window. The sound of her breath caught in her throat. The movement of her fingers against her own skin. The quiet whisper of my name fell from her lips as she brought herself to climax, unaware I stood hidden just beyond the tapestry.
The memory played again now in my mind, unrelenting—the tilt of her head, the flicker of candlelight over bare skin, the look of unguarded pleasure painted across her face.
Heat surged through me, unwelcome but undeniable. My hands curled into fists at my sides as I forced the memory back, locking it behind the steel doors of duty and control. I had no right to that moment. It had been stolen, and worse—now treasured. More than any other memory I had, this one alone continued to haunt me, seemingly during every waking second from the moment I’d watched her.
I stared at the stone beneath my boots for a long breath before I dared lift my gaze again. When I did, she was still standing there. Poised. Still as a blade sheathed in white. Her disguise was flawless. I admired it, truthfully. But admiration was not trust.
I didn’t know what she was doing here, impersonating a male knight under Arthur’s roof. I didn’t know what game she was playing or what end she served. And that ignorance unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
Assassin? No. She’d had countless chances to kill Arthur—during feasts, during their one-on-one sparring. If death had been her goal, it would already be done, or at least attempted.
