Three archways still pulsed with cold light—Kay, Tristan, and Gareth fighting their own demons within the Trial's grasp.
One archway—Tor's—had gone completely dark and silent. The absence of light there felt ominous, a void that seemed to swallow hope itself. My chest tightened as I stared at that lifeless stone frame—death. Another knight lost to the shadows. Another failure I would have to carry within me.
And one more archway appeared to be following the same terrible path—Sir Anders'. The light was fading rapidly, flickering like a dying candle in its final moments. The magical emanations grew weaker with each passing second, the stone growing cold and gray around the edges.
As I watched with growing dread, Lance stepped forward without hesitation, his black armor gleaming in the low light. Behind him, two of my most trusted guards fell into formation. Together, they crossed the threshold into Anders' failing archway, disappearing into whatever nightmare had claimed the young knight. The stone flared briefly at their passage, then resumed its ominous dimming.
The dragon within me stirred restlessly, feeding off the tension and violence that hung thick in the air like smoke. But the dragon wasn't thinking about them.
It was thinking abouther. Just as I was.
My eyes returned toLioran—toher—to the elegant line of her jaw. To her small hands. To the grace in her movements, even when exhausted. To the shape of her throat.
The truth had been in front of us all along.
How had none of us seen it?
How hadInot seen it?
Because I hadn’t wanted to. Because the idea of someone so noble, so fierce, so kind—so good—being anything but exactly who she claimed to be had felt impossible.
And now I was left standing here, watching the ruin of that illusion.
Another archway suddenly flared to life.
Kay emerged, his armor scratched, expression hollow. He didn't speak. Just marched forward like a man returning from war, eyes distant and glassy, no doubt still grappling with whatever nightmares the Trial had conjured for him. I had to admit, I wasn't pleased to see him.
Then came Tristan.
He stumbled through his archway like a drunkard, swaying with every step, his legs barely holding him upright. His eyes were unfocused—wild and unseeing—locked on something beyond our perception. His mouth moved constantly, lips forming words in no tongue I recognized. But even without translation, the sound unsettled me to my core.
He was singing.
The melodies were beautiful and monstrous all at once, rippling through the chamber in languages that had no place in the mortal world. The notes seemed to bend the air around him, warping the shape of reality with every breath he took.
The Trial had not left him untouched, but he was still standing. And that meant he had survived. He was luckier than some.
I scanned the archways once more, counting. That made seven returned.
Lance then emerged from Anders' archway. He carried Anders' limp form draped across his shoulders like an offering to death itself. Two of my guards flanked him, their expressions grim and silent, clearly bearing their own burden with the death of a comrade.
Yet another knight had been swallowed by the Shadow Trial.
It was not the first time knights had failed to return, and it would not be the last. Their names would join the long roll of thefallen, honored in song and statue—but gone all the same. Their families would receive silver. Their stories would be reshaped into legends that masked the true horror of their end. That was the cost of power.
Beside me, Mordred turned his head, locking eyes with mine. The look he gave me was brief but absolute:There will be no more.
The Trial was complete.
I forced my thoughts away from what I'd just seen—Lioran, thewoman, standing unveiled in her true form, crowned in silver-white light like a figure from prophecy. That revelation would require time to unravel. But not now. Later.Later.
We will have her. She is ours. Our treasure.
I straightened my shoulders and hardened my voice, speaking for the survivors, for the court, for the watching stone gods of Camelot.
"You have faced the darkness within,” I called out, my voice echoing through the chamber, “and emerged victorious. Tonight we feast in your honor. And tomorrow—” I paused, steadying my tone, “you take your places at the Round Table as Knights of Camelot.”
The words were practiced. They fell from my mouth easily—smooth, familiar, necessary.
