Much like my own, her laughter had rung hollow across the vaulted stone ceiling. She'd raised her goblet at appropriate moments, nodded with practiced solemnity when discussions turned to matters of honor and duty, and deflected personal questions with the skill of a master swordsman parrying deadly strikes. But I'd seen the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes constantly swept the room like a cornered animal seeking escape routes.
It was always the same with her—she remained for precisely as long as protocol demanded, fulfilling her obligations as a would-be knight of the Round Table, and then she disappeared into the sanctuary of her bedchamber. Tonight had been no different. The moment she deemed her duty satisfied, she slipped away from the revelry with movements so subtle that most wouldn’t have noticed her departure.
With the exception of me.
As soon as she vanished through the great oak doors, I did the same, abandoning my own goblet of wine and the boisterous company of my fellow knights. But where she sought solitude, I sought answers.
I wasn’t going to knock on her door.
No. This demanded silence. Infiltration. No warning, no mask of pleasantries, or time for her to craft another lie. I needed truth—raw, unguarded, immediate. The kind only shock could pull from a person’s marrow.
My fingers brushed the dagger at my hip—not out of intent to harm, but to steady myself. I wasn’t here as a knight or spy. I was here as a man chasing a ghost tangled in silk and steel.
From where I now stood outside the castle's imposing walls, I tilted my head back and noticed her window was open to the night air, a rectangle of warm golden light spilling out into the darkness like a beacon calling to the lost. The wall stretched before me—an ancient, unforgiving face of cold stone weathered by centuries of wind and rain, its surface scarred with the deep grooves and shadows that held secrets older than Camelot itself.
The stonework rose intimidatingly high, the mortar joints filled with moss that had taken root in the smallest cracks. Gargoyles leered down from hidden perches, their grotesque faces twisted into permanent grimaces that seemed to mock my foolhardy intentions. The air around the castle walls felt heavy with the weight of history, thick with the accumulated whispers of conspiracies and betrayals that had played out within these stones for generations.
Luck—or fate—had intervened. A long-dead vine clung to the wall like the skeletal remains of something once living, now twisted into a ladder by time, the sun, and wind. I didn’t question its providence. I accepted it.
I took a breath.
Then another.
And climbed.
The vine cracked and groaned under my weight, its brittle limbs shuddering with every step I took. Tiny splinters sank into my palms, but I barely felt them. My focus narrowed to the placement of hands and feet, the pull of my muscles, the sickening lurch of gravity tugging at my heels.
The courtyard stones stretched far below—pale, sharp, waiting. The stones would not forgive a mistake. They would not forget. Fall, and I was dead. It was as simple as that.
I kept climbing.
The truth was only a few steps away.
And I would have it.
Each movement demanded absolute focus. I banished thoughts of what awaited me beyond the window or far below, were I to fall. There was only the climb—testing each handhold, finding footholds where the vine thinned and the stone turned jagged. The wall bit into my palms, drawing blood in tiny, stinging beads I barely registered.
It was too important to fail.
With a final heave, I reached the ledge. There I paused, breathless—not just from exertion but from the certainty that everything was about to change.
Would she wear her disguise? Or would she appear as her true self? Or worse—what if she wasn’t here at all?
I peered inside.
The chamber looked empty at first glance. Still. Quiet. The dying embers of a fire glowed in the hearth, throwing soft shadows across the floor. I couldn’t see the bed from my angle.
I slid over the sill and landed in silence.
But no sooner had my boots touched the floor than she bolted upright in her bed, clutching the bedclothes to her chest, eyes wide. Immediately, her hand flew to the side table, fingers closing around the hilt of a dagger. Moonlight spilled throughthe open window behind me, catching the blade’s edge while throwing a sliver of light across her face.
"Lance?" she breathed, her voice trembling as she turned to face me.
Her eyes met mine, and my breath caught. That silver-white hair tumbled like moonlight poured in liquid form, falling over her shoulders and vanishing beneath the linens. Her shift clung to her in delicate folds, glowing faintly in the soft moonlight. But it was her face—her true face—that struck me almost off-balance.
There was no trace of Lioran here.
No illusion, no disguise, no man’s mask to hide behind. Justher. The woman I’d suspected. The woman from Arthur’s dreams. The woman from mine.
