So why did the thought of her death feel like a fire consuming me from the inside out, like something vital being torn away from me? Why did my hands shake at the mere possibility of her harm when I'd watched countless others fall without a tremor? I'd stood unmoved as Arthur orderedexecutions, carried out his will with steady hands and a clear conscience. Death was part of duty, sacrifice necessary for the greater good.
But this—this was different. This was wrong in a way that reached deeper than logic, beyond the careful walls I'd built around whatever passed for my heart. The idea of her white hair stained with blood, of those defiant eyes closing forever, sent something primitive and protective roaring through my veins. Something that had nothing to do with knightly oaths or royal loyalty.
But why?
I couldn't answer the question, couldn't examine why this one woman had managed to slip past every defense I'd spent decades perfecting. So I forcefully abandoned it, shoving the thoughts back into the darkness where they belonged, burying them beneath layers of duty and discipline that had never failed me before.
For now, I would wait. Watch. The woman calling herself Sir Lioran didn’t know she’d already been discovered—not fully. And I would use that advantage. If she was dangerous, I’d find out.
And if she wasn’t...
I didn’t let myself finish the thought.
Mordred’s spell shimmered to life above the silver chalice.
I leaned forward without meaning to.
Pale mist curled upward from her hands—her sacrifice drawn out by the enchantment. It gathered into a glowing vision: a child with unmistakable white hair splashing in a stream, sunlight haloing her like something from a bard’s ballad. Her laughter echoed faintly through the spell—pure, unguarded, soft.
She was beautiful. Unburdened. Innocent.
Andutterlyher.
I felt my heart stutter in my chest.
She crouched by the water’s edge, studying something in the current. One hand hovered for balance, and the other reached with the hesitant wonder of childhood. Even here, in memory, she moved like no one else—graceful, precise, instinctively aware of the world around her.
I flicked my gaze toward Arthur, dreading what he might see—what he might remember.
Of course, he would realize the girl in this vision matched the one from his dreams—only younger. But Arthur didn’t react. Not in any way that suggested recognition. His expression was still, his eyes narrowed—but he said nothing. Did nothing. Just studied the vision with the same detached scrutiny he'd given the others.
Around us, murmurs stirred like wind in dry grass.
"Lioran's sister, perhaps..."
"She favors him..."
"Could be a cousin."
They were already building their own explanations.
No one suspected. And crucially—crucially—the girl's eyes in the memory were not visibly violet.
I exhaled slowly, evenly.
For now, her secret remained hers.
But not for long.
As the memory dissolved into pure magical essence—scattering like stardust in the chapel’s still air—I saw Lioran’s shoulders sag, just slightly. A tremor passed through that deceptively strong frame, so subtle most would have overlooked it. But I didn’t. The fading light caught the hollow of her throat, the lowered sweep of thick lashes. In that moment, she looked heartbreakingly vulnerable.
Even in sacrifice, she was beautiful.
Raw. Unmasked. And it struck something in me. My fingers twitched at my side with the irrational urge to reach out, to steady her. Tocomforther.
But I did nothing. Could do nothing. We were surrounded.
The intimacy of witnessing such a private moment, carved from someone else's soul, left my chest tight with a pressure I refused to name.
