But Arthur didn't seem to notice. Instead, his attention was cemented on the stone as he approached it, clearly intending to return the blade to its resting place.
But before the sword even touched the surface of the stone, I felt it—like a pulse of static that raised every hair on my skin. A sharp, magical tension snapped through the air.
Excalibur refused.
The blade hovered, a breath away from the stone, the rock that had cradled it now as unyielding as steel. Excalibur's magic rippled visibly along the metal, flickering in defiance. Moonlight caught on its surface in jagged shards, refracted in flashes like lightning held in steel.
Arthur’s brow furrowed. He tried again.
The sword did not yield.
His jaw clenched. His hands tightened around the hilt, muscles straining. Still, nothing.
Excalibur would not return to the stone.
Confusion furrowed deep lines into Arthur's face, chased swiftly by frustration—and something deeper. Something rawer.
Fear.
He masked it quickly, but I saw it. I no longer saw a king with the strength to hold kingdoms in line. Instead, I saw a man standing before the echo of a truth he didn’t want to believe: that the sword no longer belonged to him; that perhaps it never truly had.
Arthur tried to return the sword to the stone again, muscles flexing with visible effort, but Excalibur refused him still. The blade hovered obstinately above the stone, unmoved by strength or will. The magic around it pulsed—steady, cold, final.
“It appears,” Nimue said quietly, her tone laced with something close to sorrow—or satisfaction, it was hard to tell, “that while Guinevere does not claim the sword, neither does it wish to be returned. And it will not accept you any longer, Arthur.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Arthur stood tall, sword in hand, yet no longer the sword’s chosen. And I continued to kneel—acknowledged by Excalibur, not because I desired power, but because I didn’t.
The moment was more than symbolic. It was seismic.
Moonlight glanced off Excalibur’s blade, throwing fractured light across Arthur’s face. His expression was unreadable now—some strange alloy of pain, defiance, and something else… something that looked a lot like loss.
And I realized, with the quiet certainty that came only in moments like this, that whatever came next would change everything. The future balanced on this instant like a blade on a fingertip, trembling between the weight of old wars and the pull of what might still be possible.
Hope—or ruin.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
-LANCE-
Once Guin excused herself from the feast, I witnessed the moment Arthur’s expression changed.
The celebration raged on around us—knights and courtiers raising their cups in endless toasts—but my focus never left Arthur. His expression shifted from forced joviality to something colder, sharper. Something predatory. His gaze locked on Lioran—onGuin—as she quietly slipped away from the crowd. And I knew, with sickening certainty, that he had finally put the pieces together.
Almost reflexively, he set his goblet down with deliberate care. The look in his eyes turned my blood to ice. I'd seen that expression before—it was the look he wore just before he ordered an execution. A second later, he stood up and excused himself, claiming he was tired. But I knew better.
Once he walked out of the Great Hall, there was no thought in my response, only motion. My body moved before my mind caught up. Whatever Arthur intended, she would face it alone unless I intervened.
And the fact that I now thought of her asGuin—no longerLioran—told me everything I needed to know. Despite the lies, the glamour, the deception… she had already rooted herself in my heart.
So I followed him. My oldest friend. My king.
To protect her. To stop him from harming her, if that was what it came to.
I slipped through the shadows, keeping just out of sight as I followed him through the castle grounds and into the forest path that led to the lake. I was far enough behind him that he wouldn't notice me but close enough that I could act quickly if I needed to.
Arthur moved like a hunter, his hand resting casually—but not idly—on Caliburn’s hilt. He stopped just short of the clearing beside the lake, taking up position among the ancient oaks. I did the same—hiding behind the trunk of a tree perhaps ten feet from where he stood. Then we both watched, where we could remain unseen.
