Maps and reports—Arthur’s urgent requests—lay scattered on my bedside table, untouched since dusk. I hadn’t been able to focus since my meeting with Lioran. Discipline, my closest ally, had abandoned me. My thoughts were now the true battlefield—one I couldn’t navigate, no matter how many wars I’d survived.
I'd tried drowning my thoughts in wine. It hadn't worked.
My mind kept circling back toher—to what I'd seen in her chamber: the image of the most beautiful woman I'd ever beheld, fingering her wetness while calling my name. The memories burned in my head like a brand seared into flesh—permanent, painful, impossible to ignore no matter how deeply I attempted to drown them.
The vision rose again—her skin silvered by moonlight, her breath caught in a sound I shouldn’t have heard, her body curved in pleasure as she whispered my name.
Gods help me, the memory burned like fire behind my eyes. I could not rid myself of it, no matter how many times I told myself I shouldn’t have seen it. No matter how fiercely I tried to bury it in guilt and shame.
It had answered questions I hadn't dared to ask regarding Lioran—why I'd felt that strange pull toward him, why I'd stared too long, cared too much, felt so protective. Because Lioran wasn’t a man. Of course. And now I understood.
Relief had come first, sharp and sudden.
But now came the consequence.
Now came the need.
It clawed at me, relentless and dangerous. I couldn’t stop thinking of her—not just the image I’d witnessed, but everything. Her wit. Her strength. Her eyes. The way she moved, not just with skill, but with intent. Purpose. The way she'd listened. The way she'd looked at me. And behind all of it, a secret—cleverly hidden, but never fully erased.
Never far from my mind was Arthur's obsession with her—the way his voice changed when he spoke of the mysterious woman, the way his eyes grew distant and hungry. I was just as bewitched by her as he was. Only he still didn't know the truth…
"Gods." I swore through clenched teeth, then stood up, flinging the goblet across the chamber. It struck the stone wall with a dull, ringing thud, wine spraying like blood across the stone.
The silence that followed was deafening.
I pressed my palms to the table, chest heaving as I leaned over, trying to master the storm in my mind. The wine hadn’t helped. Nothing could. I was unraveling. Slowly. Steadily.
Thoughts of the woman posing as Lioran fought with thoughts of Arthur, and shame rose within me. I thought of him—the king who had saved me, raised me from nothing. I owed him everything. But the man he'd become? Cold. Consumed. Obsessed. It was the dragon—I knew it was. It was the same path his father had followed.
“I should tell him,” I muttered as I shook my head. “It’s my duty.” I took a deep breath. "I should fucking tell him."
I knew what I should have done:revealed her. Delivered her to the man who hunted her.
But the thought made my stomach twist.
Because I remembered Arthur’s voice when he spoke of her."Logic dictates I should kill her,"he’d said."But my body argues otherwise."
There had been something in his tone—something dark, something dangerous. Not love. Not even desire—no, it was more than just desire. Possession.
Would he hurt her? Punish her? Use her and then what—discard her? Destroy her?
Could I be the one to place her at his feet, knowing what he might do to her?
I stood and turned to the window, gripping the stone frame so hard my knuckles burned. The night wind brushed against me, but it brought no calm. Only more questions.
What did I believe?
I remembered our talks—hers and mine. I remembered laughter by the fire, sparring matches that ended in breathless silence. I remembered the way I felt so comfortable with her that I shared pieces of myself I'd never shared with anyone else. I remembered the way she looked at me, the awe and the need in her eyes.
Yes, she’d lied to me.
But I’d seen glimpses of something honest underneath the facade. Her kindness to those around her. Her hesitations. Her convictions. Her strength of character.
I knew deception. I’d lived among spies and soldiers and men who wore masks every day. But what she carried wasn’t malice. It was fear. She hadn’t come here to destroy. She had come here because she had to; I was fairly convinced.
And despite myself, I’d come to know her—not Lioran, not the illusion, but the woman inside the disguise. The one who laughed. The one who watched everything and everyone with intelligent eyes. The one who felt so damn real it made everything else seem fake and false.
So how, then, could this same woman be a spy? Perhaps even an assassin? How could she be someone sent to dismantle Camelot from within—the kingdom I'd sworn my life to protect?
