The halls of Camelot stretched what felt like miles, and I walked them briskly, nodding at the few knights or guards I came across. I would first check the Great Hall and hopefully find her breaking her fast. Or perhaps she was walking the rose gardens, as she was wont to do. I wasn't sure where she was, but I was intent on finding her all the same.
The Silent Citadel loomed like an ancient ghost at Camelot's edge, its stone walls layered with the passage of time and forgotten whispers.
Once a proud fortress, a silent sentinel watching over the kingdom, it stood as a testament to the power of time. I approached cautiously, each step echoing softly against the cobblestone path, careful not to disturb the memories embedded in its shadowed halls.
The tower rose high above me, its pinnacle disappearing into the mist that clung to its battlements like lingering specters from the past. Vines crawled up its rugged stone walls with the tenacity of life amidst decay. Windows were hollow eyes, staring out over Camelot with silent judgment, and the archways whispered tales of long-lost inhabitants. I imagined Arthur’s ancestors once pacing these halls, their presence swallowed by time.
At the base, remnants of old armor rusted away in forgotten heaps, while the wind threaded through gaps in the stones, producing an eerie, intermittent song. Silence wrapped around me here, thick and palpable, as though the Citadel itself breathed an unwilling sigh.
Not a single pennant stirred, and even the sparrows that usually chattered in the eaves had gone silent.
As silent as I was.
Even though I had searched every conceivable location within the castle for Morgan, I had failed to find her. In fact, I was fairly convinced she was nowhere to be found in Camelot.Every corner remained obstinately empty, mocking my attempts to find her. The ache of uncertainty now clawed at me; the Shadow Trial loomed, and Morgan, my lone ally, had vanished.
With each step toward the Citadel, my resolve hardened. I would have to face the trial with the final two pieces of the Obscura. And hopefully, Merlin's Draught and the Ember of Forgetting would be enough to shield me. The thought of Arthur’s perceptive gaze sent shivers through me, but there was no time for hesitance.
As I entered the crumbling courtyard of the Citadel, Lance's startled expression made my heart skip—a violent flutter that I fought to suppress beneath the rigid composure of Sir Lioran. The way his dark eyes widened, the subtle shift in his stance as he caught sight of me, told me everything I needed to know. He hadn't expected to see me here, hadn't expected me to appear at all. His surprise was genuine, unguarded for just a heartbeat before his usual controlled mask slipped back into place.
Most likely, he had sent more letters to my room in an attempt to coordinate a plan, some carefully crafted excuse for Sir Lioran's absence from this final trial. Messages that had gone astray in my desperate search for Morgan, left unopened on my chamber table while I had spent precious hours wandering Camelot's endless corridors like a person possessed. Letters containing strategies we had never discussed, contingencies we had never planned, all rendered useless by my single-minded pursuit of an ally who had vanished into the castle's shadows like a ghost.
It explained the furrow that creased his brow, the flare of something deeper than mere surprise that lived in his eyes as I approached across the stone courtyard. Concern. Worry. Fear—not for himself, but for me.
The afternoon light caught the silver inlay of his black armor as he stepped forward, his imposing figure throwing a longshadow across the grounds. I could read the tension in the set of his broad shoulders, the way his hand rested unconsciously near his sword hilt—the instinctive readiness of a warrior who sensed danger approaching someone he cared about.
"Sir Lioran," he greeted, his voice steadier than the look he wore. "Are you… feeling well enough to be here?"
So, he must have spun some tale about my ailing health. When Arthur turned his attention to me, there was concern in his eyes as well. Clearly, Lance must have told the king that Lioran was ailing.
"I feel well enough to be here, Sir Lancelot." Then I turned to Arthur and bowed. "My king."
Lance's expression revealed the storm of doubts churning beneath his carefully controlled exterior. The muscle along his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and I caught the way his dark eyes flicked toward Arthur before settling back on me—a warning, perhaps, or a question he couldn't voice aloud.
I could sense his desperate desire to speak further, to pull me aside and demand answers to questions that had clearly been plaguing him since whatever story he'd concocted to explain my absence.
Yet he held back with the iron discipline that had made him Arthur's most trusted knight, clearly worried about exposing our deception. The weight of unspoken words hung between us, sharp and dangerous. In his silence, I read volumes: concern for my well-being warring with loyalty to his king, battling against the fear of either of us being found out.
He nodded, his silence as solid as his armor.
Meanwhile, the decrepit courtyard held its breath, knights gathering beneath the indifferent gaze of marble heroes, all succumbing to the abuse of time. Each idle murmur added to the tension; every footfall seemed a heartbeat waiting to thunder.
The court was in attendance for this last trial. They had assembled in tiered rows that ringed the Citadel, though none of them had taken their seats. Their finery contrasted sharply with the decay around them: silks and velvets in jewel tones, elaborate hairstyles with gold pins, rings glinting on fingers that gestured languidly as they gossiped behind fans and gloved hands.
Lady Elaine perched among her attendants in the eastern section, all of the houses separated (as always) by geographical location. Her beauty was carefully arranged, her attention fixed on Arthur as I wondered if she still had her sights set on him, even after he’d scorned her at the start of the trials. It appeared she did. Scattered throughout stood lesser nobles, advisors, and opportunists—perhaps eighty souls total, all watching, all waiting to witness which knights would emerge as Arthur’s new Round Table.
Their collective anticipation pressed against me like a physical weight.
I adjusted the ceremonial armor they’d given me—a midnight blue tunic, traced with silver wave patterns across the breastplate. Crystals embedded at each joint pulsed faintly, humming whenever I moved. The armor felt heavier than my usual gear—weighted not with steel, but with expectation.
Nine others stood beside me in the courtyard as the sun climbed higher.
Galahad looked serene, like he awaited morning prayers rather than a trial that would likely break a few of us. Percival flexed his fingers rhythmically, nerves plain in every motion. Gawain stood rigid, already locked in some silent inner war. Agravaine seemed composed, revealing nothing. Tristan stood there with a pleasant smile, though the shadows behind his eyes suggested anything but joy. Gareth appeared a stark contrast, standing by Tristan but rigid and alert, his posture a soldier’spromise in sinew and bone. Kay, meanwhile, skulked in the shadows, separate from the other knights. He refused to look at me. Sir Anders and Sir Tor rounded out the group.
That was when I felt him. Lance appeared at my shoulder, close enough that I caught the scent of leather, steel, and something warmer beneath—familiar, grounding.Hisscent.
“Are you well?” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
“Yes.” I kept my tone neutral, though my pulse betrayed me. He looked at me with concern.
