High cheekbones. That hair. And those eyes—violet, shifting like dusk over water, wide with alarm but quickly narrowing into wary focus. I saw the flicker of fear… and then the decision to mask it. Her spine straightened. Her grip held.
But she didn’t move to resume her disguise. She made no attempt to reconstruct the lie. Perhaps she knew there was no point. Perhaps she'd been waiting for this moment just as I had.
I stood frozen, stunned not by the deception but by the sheer beauty of its unraveling. Then, finally, the question that had been carving me hollow broke free from my throat.
“Why?”
Just one word, but it carried every wound, every suspicion, every night of doubt I’d endured. She didn't respond right away, so I continued.
“Why this deception? Why infiltrate Camelot under false pretenses?” I took a step closer. Then another. My voice lowered, but it struck harder as the shock was quickly overcome with anger. “Why lie to us all?”
"I had no choice. Women…" Her voice shook. "Women aren't permitted in the trials." Her voice—no longer bearing Lioran’s practiced depth—held the same cadence I’d come to recognize. But now, stripped of the mask, it carried a softer lilt, rich and melodic, yet higher-pitched—feminine.
I said nothing at first. I just stared.
She held my gaze, even as her breath hitched. A slight tremor ran through her as she clutched the linens tighter. The moonlight framed her in rays of silver—catching on the delicate bones of her wrists, the same ones I’d seen wield a sword too many times to count.
"That doesn’t explain why you joined the trials," I said at last, my voice colder than I intended. "Or what you’re doing in Camelot." I paused. "Are you an assassin? A spy?"
"No." She swallowed hard as she shook her head. Then she looked down, cleared her throat, and met my eyes again, as though summoning her nerve, her courage. "Please believe that I only wanted to serve my king. To use my magic for something that mattered. But as a woman… that was never an option."
Simple. Too simple. I wanted to believe her—but truth and deception had worn the same face for too long.
"Then why approach the sword? Why approach Excalibur? You knew what the sword meant, the weight it carries. You knew it was off-limits—meant for Arthur's hands alone."
She swallowed hard, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "I didn’t intend to touch it at all. It was only when the Lady of the Lake appeared to me. She… she insisted I try." She paused and took a deep breath. "I didn't intend to draw the sword, Lance."
I couldn't... I couldn't handle the familiarity in the shortened version of my name. The way it rolled off her tongue so easily, so naturally, as if we were still comrades who shared jokes andale in the great hall. As if she hadn't spent weeks deceiving me, making me believe she was someone she wasn't.
It reminded me too much of the mistake I'd made in trusting her—in allowing myself to see her as an equal, a brother-in-arms worthy of my respect. During our training sessions, every shared moment of understanding when we'd sparred in the courtyard, every night we'd sat by the fire discussing strategy and honor... all of it felt tainted now. Poisoned by the knowledge that she'd been playing a role, studying me, learning when and how to strike.
"Do not call me by that name."
The words came sharper than I intended, and I saw the way she flinched.
She dipped her head, her voice quiet as she corrected herself, "Sir Lancelot."
I took a step forward.
She reacted instantly—throwing the bedclothes aside and rising to her feet, her posture guarded, body tense. Clearly, she thought I might attack her. And that bothered me more than I could say.
Her shift hung loose against her small frame, but she stood like a warrior, unflinching. She backed away, matching my advance, until her spine met the stone wall. She must have known I could so easily break her in two. And yet she didn't arm herself with anything other than her small dagger. Even that she held by her side, as if she realized it would do her no good against me.
"So it’s true." I stopped a few paces short of her. "You pulled Excalibur from the stone. Arthur was correct."
When she looked up again, something in her eyes burned, fierce and defiant. "Yes. I drew the sword. And I was as shocked as anyone when it accepted me."
"Then you must have used witchcraft to do so." I nearly spat the words at her.
She stood her ground, glaring up at me, something that struck me as odd given her position. But, yes, there was that defiance beneath her fear—that refusal to back down even when she was cornered.
"I used no witchcraft."
"Then you manipulated it somehow with your magic."
She shook her head. "I didn’t manipulate or enchant it. I didn’t cheat, Lancelot. Why it chose me, I do not know."
I wanted to believe her. Gods help me, I did. But something cold gripped my chest. "Then how do you explain it? Arthur is the only one who should be able to wield that sword."
