But that didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous.
Some poisons work slowly. Some weapons don’t draw blood. There were other ways to topple a kingdom than with a blade to the heart—ways more insidious, more patient. Was she gathering intelligence for a rival kingdom? For Merlin? For the Northern Resistance?
Or, more troubling still, perhaps she acted on her own. A player with her own rules and no master. Was her interest based on vengeance, redemption, or a goal so secret she would risk everything to maintain this illusion?
And then there was the story Arthur had told me—that she had drawn Excalibur from the stone. I hadn't witnessed the event myself, of course, so I couldn't say I fully believed it. The tale seemed impossible, fantastical even. Excalibur had been bound to that ancient stone for many years, waiting for what? I wasn't certain. I always assumed it would someday respond to Arthur once more, as it always had, responding to his bloodline alone. The sword was woven into the fabric of his kingship, his divine right to rule.
Yet Arthur had described how she'd released Excalibur with such conviction... Perhaps Arthur was confused? Delirious from exhaustion? He'd been consumed with worry regarding Merlin's growing threat, barely sleeping and eating little. The weight of the crown had pressed down on him with increasing force these past months. Stress could make a man see things that weren't there, twisting memory into myth.
Or perhaps he'd simply misunderstood what he had witnessed? Maybe the sword had been loosened by time, by weather, or by some subtle magic finally wearing thin. Maybe any person could have drawn it at that moment, and she'd simply been the one to try.
But even as I tried to rationalize the story away, doubt gnawed at me. Arthur was many things, but he wasn't given toflights of fancy. He was a warrior first, pragmatic to his core. For him to speak of such an impossible thing with such certainty...
One thing had become achingly clear.
The mystery of the knight called Lioran was now mine to solve.
It had wrapped itself around me like a silken snare. And until I fully understood what it was I was dealing with, I couldn’t decide what I felt for and towards her—not fully. I could only pray that my ignorance of her motives, as well as my bewilderment over how she'd freed Excalibur (if she had), were the only reasons I had neglected to seize her. The old me would never have paused—he would have discovered the lie and seized the liar.
And yet… I couldn't do that. Not with her. Not yet, at any rate.
I needed to know the truth. I needed tounderstandher. What drove her to come here? Why did she want to take part in these trials? What was important enough to her to risk discovery every moment she remained here?
I would have to watch her more closely. Not just in passing. Not from a distance. I'd find a way to speak with her alone—some pretense that wouldn’t raise suspicion. A training match. A shared patrol. An errand sent by Arthur. It didn’t matter. I would find a way.
And once I had the truth… then I could decide what to do with it—and with her.
Would I expose her to Arthur? To Mordred?
Perhaps.
If her reasons for being here were justified… would I protect her secret? Would I protect her?
The thought twisted in my gut.
Because I knew what her punishment would be if she were found out. I knewexactlywhat Arthur would do if he discoveredher lie, that she was an imposter. Camelot did not tolerate deception—especially not here, not in its most sacred circle. Treason. Infiltration. Magic. Womanhood, concealed behind a man’s name. Any one of those was enough to see her executed.
But what of his obsession with the white-haired woman?I reminded myself. And then I knew exactly what he'd do—he'd fuck her until he was tired of her, and then he'd leave her to her punishment.
At the mere thought of Arthur's hands on her—of him claiming that body I'd glimpsed from behind the tapestry on her wall, of him taking his pleasure from her—something savage and primitive roared to life in my chest. My vision went crimson at the edges, blood pounding in my temples with a killing rage I hadn't felt since my earliest days as a green knight. The fury crashed over me like a physical force, making my hands shake and my breath come in short, harsh bursts. Every muscle in my body coiled tight, ready to strike, to destroy, to tear apart anything that dared threaten what I was beginning to think of asmine.
The rational voice in my head grew fainter, drowned out by the primal roar of possession and violence that had served me so well on countless battlefields. This wasn't the controlled aggression of a seasoned knight—this was something more dangerous, more raw. It was the kind of rage that had made me legendary, the kind that had carved my reputation from the bones of my enemies and written my name in blood across a dozen kingdoms.
I couldn't stop the images that crashed through my head like a fever dream. Arthur's smile as he forced her to her knees. His hands fisted in that white hair. The way he'd use her body in his anger—roughly, carelessly, taking what he wanted. The vision was so vivid, so viscerally upsetting that it felt like a blade twisting in my gut, the images seared into my mind withhorrifying clarity that made my entire body recoil in violent rejection.
Because I wanted her body. I wanted to feel my cock pushing inside her. I wanted to hear that moan, the sound of my name on her lips as I slammed myself into her tight wetness and she orgasmed all over me. Repeatedly.
I clenched my jaw hard enough to make my teeth ache and shoved the thought aside with violent force. If Arthur knew the truth—that I not only knew where his precious white-haired goddess was, but that I desired her myself, that I wanted her in a way I'd never wanted another woman, and that I was… hiding her from him…
Fuck. I didn't know what he'd do. Have my head, I imagined. And then he'd have hers.
I couldn't—Gods, I couldn't imagine her death. The thought sent something cold and vicious clawing through my chest, an animalistic rejection that had nothing to do with logic or duty.
The image tried to form anyway: her delicate neck stretched taut, those lovely eyes going dim and lifeless. Arthur's executioner raising his blade. That white hair falling loose as her head—
No.
I pressed my palms against my temples, forcing the vision away. My hands were trembling. When had that started? I was Sir Lancelot du Lac. I didn't tremble. I didn't flinch from hard truths or necessary sacrifices. I'd watched men die—good men, brave men—and felt nothing but the cold satisfaction of duty fulfilled.
