"The answers cannot simply be handed to you, Guinevere. Life is about discovering truth through your own experience, your own choices, your own pain." Her voice carried the weight of centuries, each word measured and deliberate. "Knowledge given freely is often knowledge dismissed. Understanding earned through struggle becomes part of who you are."
I didn't want to accept her words because they cut through me like ice-cold steel, each syllable a blade that found its mark in the deepest, most vulnerable parts of my heart. Yes, there was truth in her words, but that didn't make the pain any less bearable. Hearing as much, especially from the lips of the woman who had given me life and then watched from afar as I stumbled through confusion and terror, felt like a betrayal that went bone-deep.
She shifted slightly, the water around her ankles rippling with the movement. "Then, once the sword chose you, you made the choice to run. You turned your back on the destiny that called to you, on the power that sang in your blood, on the very essence of who you truly are."
A pause stretched between us, heavy. The night air felt suddenly thick, oppressive.
"I never wanted that responsibility. I still don't."
"Yet it is your fate, your destiny, Guinevere."
I swallowed hard. It seemed Nimue was as detached from me as Merlin. They both had their goals for me—the role they wanted me to wear. To Merlin, I was his spy. To Nimue, I was the rightful wielder of the sword. But what was I to myself?
“I don’t want to rule. I never wanted Arthur’s throne. I still don’t.”
“Perhaps that is precisely why the sword found you worthy.” A hint of a smile touched her lips. “Those who hunger for powerrarely deserve it. But those who accept it as duty rather than destiny...”
Then—footsteps.
Deliberate. Heavy.
I stiffened. The sound crunched over the ground behind me. Someone was here. Watching. My blood turned to ice as I turned around to see a figure stepping into the moonlight, emerging from the shadows like fate made flesh.
First, the silver thread of his royal robe glinted in the moonlight. Then came the hard lines of his face. His sword—Caliburn. His eyes—piercing, unreadable, burning.
Arthur.
Nimue turned slowly, her composure undisturbed. “Arthur Pendragon.” She didn't sound surprised to see him, and for all I knew, she had known he'd been there the whole time.
But I was surprised. No, I was shocked, and now my stomach twisted as I turned to face him fully, my heart thundering. But I didn't know what to say. What was there to say? I had no idea how long he'd been standing there, nor how much he'd overheard. All I did know was that I'd been found out—that I was standing here without my Lioran disguise.
Arthur stood ten paces away, Caliburn in his hand. His regal presence, bathed in moonlight, made him look like a wrathful deity, every inch the high king. The expression on his face was unreadable—but his eyes…
They held fire. And something more dangerous than fury.
Betrayal.
“I have heard confirmation of treason,” he said, his voice resonating with cold, devastating authority as he approached me. I didn't back away. “You are Merlin’s daughter. And you have infiltrated my court, wearing a false face and using a false name. You are guilty of competing in sacred trials under lies.”He took a deep breath. "And you are the witch of Eldenvale—you are responsible for drowning my soldiers."
He looked between Nimue and me—an executioner considering whom to strike first. When his gaze returned to mine, it was no longer the look of a man in conflict. It was a ruler demanding truth.
I stood straighter, and I met Arthur’s gaze. I didn’t flinch. Not from the fury in his eyes, not from the betrayal blazing behind his expression. He deserved to see me now without disguise, without pretense. Whatever judgment he passed, I would face it as myself.
"You are the daughter of the Lady of the Lake," he said, his voice low and steady, asking the question as if he doubted his own eyes—doubted what he, no doubt, had just witnessed for himself. "And Merlin."
"I am."
"Your name is Guinevere."
"It is."
"And it was you who pulled the sword from the stone."
I nodded. "It was."
He stepped closer, Caliburn still lowered—but the threat was unmistakable, coiled in his stance like a drawn bow.
"The sword chose her, Arthur," Nimue said, her tone no longer soft or distant but commanding. A queen’s voice, not a spirit’s.
