I watched Guin reach the water’s edge—and almost instantly, the lake responded. First in gentle ripples, then a subtle swelling of the tide as if it were drawn to her presence. Mist rose and curled around her, brushing her ankles in reverent greeting.
Arthur didn’t move.
But I saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the tight grip on his sword, the way his breath caught.
The Lady of the Lake rose from the water like a moonlit specter—elegant, commanding, eternal. She seemed to be carved from starlight and shadow. Even from my distance, the sheer weight of her presence pressed against me—electric and undeniable.
My skin prickled, and my limbs felt heavy and clumsy beneath the force of her presence. This wasn’t just magic. Thiswas origin. Magic before kingdoms, before swords and crowns. Magic that existed in blood, in tide, in root and rock.
And I, a knight of Camelot sworn to protect my king, could only watch and wonder where my loyalty would lie when this night was done.
“Mother.” Guinevere’s voice rang across the still water, clear and bright as a bell tolling through mist.
My breath caught, the word echoing through my mind like a thunderclap.Mother.The word hung in the mist-laden air between them, heavy with implications that sent my world tilting off its axis.
My heart started to race, and my breathing came in quick spurts as I doubted my own ears.
Mother?
The Lady of the Lake—ancient, magical, more legend than flesh—was Guinevere's mother? The woman I'd held in my arms only the night before… she was the daughter of one of the most powerful beings in all of Logres? Was Nimue a being? I wasn't even certain. I'd always thought of her as a spirit. And yet…
Why hadn't Guin told me the truth? Why hadn't she told me she was the daughter of the Lady of the Lake?
My chest tightened as fragments of memory rushed through my mind—every conversation we'd shared, every careful deflection when I'd asked about her past, every moment she'd claimed to be from humble origins. How many lies had she wrapped around the truth? How many times had I looked into those eyes and seen only what she wanted me to see?
I blinked hard against the tumultuous wave of thoughts crashing over me, my heart hammering so violently I was certain it would give away my position. The blood roared in my ears as I struggled to process what I'd just witnessed.
Why had she never told me?The question burned through my mind like acid, eating away at every tender moment we'dshared. I thought back to all those stolen conversations in darkened corridors, the way she'd listened so intently when I spoke of my past, my fears, my dreams. She'd drawn secrets from me with such gentle persistence, making me feel heard in ways I'd never experienced before. Yet all the while, she'd been harboring this earth-shattering truth—that she was the daughter of a being of such immense power.
Why had she kept this from me? The betrayal cut deep, not because of what she was, but because she'd chosen to hide it from me. When we'd lain together in the quiet aftermath of passion, her fingers tracing idle patterns across my chest while moonlight painted silver paths across her skin, she could have told me.
Was she afraid of my reaction? The thought made my chest constrict with a different kind of pain. Did she truly believe me so narrow-minded, so bound by Camelot's propaganda that I would have turned from her? Couldn't she see that I would have understood? After everything I'd shared with her about my own complicated feelings toward Arthur's rule, after the way I'd confessed my growing disillusionment with the king's increasingly harsh methods, how could she not realize that learning of her divine parentage would have been a revelation, not a condemnation?
If anything, it would have explained the otherworldly quality I'd sensed in her from the very beginning. It would have made sense of the magnetic pull I felt toward her, the way every instinct screamed that she was different, special, meant for something far greater than the simple knight's life she claimed to want.
“Daughter,” came the reply—Nimue’s voice.
From where I crouched in the trees, Arthur’s sharp intake of breath cut through the silence as his grip on Caliburn tightened, his shoulders coiling with grim intent.
The conversation that followed between them struck like hammer blows against my ribs, each revelation more devastating than the last. Because Guinevere wasn't just Nimue's daughter—she wasMerlin'sdaughter as well. The Archmage's own blood, sent to infiltrate Camelot.
My mind reeled as the implications crashed over me in waves. The most powerful sorcerer in the realm had sired a child with the mystical Lady of the Lake, and that child had become Merlin's weapon against Arthur, against Camelot, and…against me. And I—Gods help me—I'd fallen completely under her spell.
The rest of their conversation reached my ears, but I couldn't say I could fully concentrate on what was being said. Not with the way my mind and heart were still reeling.
Hidden away at birth to protect her from Arthur's purges. Bound magically until her twentieth year to suppress the power that would have marked her for death. Raised by mortal farmers who had loved her as their own—only to die because of what she truly was. Eldenvale.
She was the witch of Eldenvale—the reason so many of my men had died—swallowed by a tidal wave ofhermaking. I could only assume she'd found safety in Annwyn, past the Standing Stones, with her father.
Her fucking father.
Every word that passed between mother and daughter felt like another stone thrown into the still lake of my certainty—and each one sent ripples through everything I thought I knew about her. The careful way she'd spoken of her past, always vague about details. The haunted look that would sometimes cross her face when she thought no one was watching.
All of it made terrible sense now. The gaps in her story hadn't been modesty or painful memories—they'd been carefully constructed lies designed to hide a truth that would have seen her burned at the stake. She hadn't been evasive about her pastbecause it was shameful to her. She'd been evasive because her past was the most dangerous secret in all of Logres.
And worst of all? She'd lied to me. Numerous times.
Even when she’d had the chance to tell me the truth—when we lay tangled together in her chambers, hoping and planning for a future together, her breath warm against my throat—she’d chosen lies. She'd looked into my eyes and told me she wanted only to serve the realm. That she believed in Arthur's dream. That her skills were a gift she wanted to offer to Camelot.
