I didn't know why I didn't just come out with the truth—why I didn't tell her I knew she was the white-haired woman. Perhaps I hoped she would admit as much to me instead? That she would trust me enough to tell me.
The words hung between us in the flickering torchlight, heavy and irretrievable. Her breath caught. The shadows danced across her face, blurring the line between illusion and truth. I hadn’t accused her. She hadn’t confessed. But something had shifted, and we both knew it.
"Lance…" My name on her tongue brought me back to the moment I’d watched her on her bed.
I reached out, without thought, lost to the need to feel her, and touched her cheek. The moment my fingertips made contact with her skin, the world seemed to narrow to just this moment—just the two of us—just the electric current sparking between us.
Gods, I was taking such a chance. What if someone were to see us?
But all I could think about was that her skin was too soft for a knight. Too delicate, too feminine. A tremor passed through me at the contact—her breath hitched, my own heart hammering.
Her eyes widened, pupils dilating until the blue of Lioran's disguise was nearly swallowed by black. I watched her pulse flutter at the base of her throat, rapid and erratic. My thumb moved of its own accord, tracing the high curve of her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch despite herself.
And beneath the expected scent of leather and steel—beneath the carefully maintained facade of Sir Lioran—I caught the unmistakable trace of lavender. Sweet, feminine, utterly at odds with the armor she wore. It was faint, almost hidden, but itmight as well have been a battle cry for how it shattered the last of my pretense.
This was no knight standing before me.
My thumb traced along the line of her jaw. Too fine. Too elegant. Forbidden. But I couldn’t step back. The loyalty I’d carried toward Arthur, toward Camelot, had crumbled beneath the weight of this feeling I didn’t understand—and what was more, I didn’t want to.
“Whatever you’re hiding,” I whispered, “I can't deny what I feel.”
I told myself this was strategy—that if she believed I cared, she might trust me. And trust could be used. Twisted. Turned into something useful. But even as I spun the lie, I felt the truth burning through it.
I meant every word I'd just said.
My fingers lingered against her skin, memorizing the shape of her cheek, the heat of her. Something within me whispered that this was a dangerous game. I knew as much. I just didn’t care.
“This isn’t wise.” Her voice was a whisper. "We should keep our distance. If we’re caught—”
“—I can’t stay away from you.”
She hesitated. “Lance…”
“Tell me the truth,” I interrupted. The words slipped free before I could stop them. “Please. I want to hear it from you.”
Her lips parted. “The truth?”
I nodded.
She looked away, her expression tightening. “I… I can’t.” She turned to face me again. "Please don't make me, Lance. Please."
And there it was.
I stood on the knife’s edge between everything I’d sworn to uphold and the insane pull of the woman in front of me.
The air seemed to hold its breath, as if it recognized the moment for what it was: not a confession, not yet—but the spark before one. A boundary crossed. A line blurred.
-GUIN-
The door to my chambers closed with a soft click that echoed like the fall of an executioner’s blade.
For a long moment, I simply stood there—back pressed to the heavy wood—listening to the silence. It felt both oppressive and precious.
Did Lance know?
The way he’d looked at me. The way he’d asked for my secret. It was almost as if…
But no. That was impossible.
