What was more, she'd made me feel something I hadn't felt in a very long time—vulnerable. I'd allowed her in. I'd allowed myself to feel for her. And she'd made me feel... full. That constant emptiness that had lived within me since the death of my mother and sister had finally started to ease. The hollowness had started to fill.
Even now, I couldn't cancel the memories of the way she'd looked at me during our stolen moments together, as if I were the answer to prayers she'd never dared voice aloud. The gentle touch of her fingers tracing my scars. She'd made me feel like the luckiest man in the world.
So lucky, in fact, that I'd been willing to betray the closest person to me—Arthur. My king, my brother in all but blood, the man who'd given me purpose when I had nothing. I'd been ready to throw away years of loyalty, of brotherhood forged in battle and sealed in trust.
All of this, all the pain and longing, for what? For a lie crafted so expertly it felt real? A deceptive façade? Was I merely a tool, manipulated by a weapon forged in the fires of her father's cunning ambition? A calculated pawn in a game far greater than I could ever grasp? Gods, I was a fool.
A complete fucking fool.
The truth began to eat at me: Guinevere was nothing more than a beautiful spy wrapped in lies. Suddenly, each memorywith her felt repulsive. Her skill in the training yard—how effortlessly she’d bested the others with her magic. The trials—how she’d passed them all with calm. I’d told myself she was gifted. Brave. Rare.
Now I knew better. She’d been trained from birth to play this role. And I had fallen right into her hands. Had she laughed at me to her father when I’d opened my heart to her? When I'd found myself attracted to her as Lioran, no matter what I did to talk myself out of it? When I’d whispered affectionate words into the hollow of her throat, had she repeated them to her father? Was it all just reconnaissance—cataloging my weaknesses for Merlin to later exploit? Had she been scheming just how to weaponize my secrets?
I glanced over at Arthur and caught the expression on his face. Clearly, whatever flickers of doubt he might have had regarding Lioran, they were now gone. He’d heard enough.
And I had, too.
A hollow ache bloomed in my chest, a yawning chasm of betrayal that cracked straight through the parts of me I’d only just begun to trust her with. I’d let her in. I’d let herseeme—not the knight, not the legend, but theman.
And all the while, she was plotting my downfall. Not only mine but Arthur's. Camelot's. All the knights who had made it thus far.
The memory of her touch seared now, not with longing but with shame. Bile rose in my throat, and my fists clenched at my sides, nails biting into my palms. My blood boiled, fury rising swift and hot, burning away the last remnants of tenderness like fire consuming parchment. My battle instincts surged to the surface—ready, unthinking, pure.
Hatred was easier. Cleaner. There were no contradictions in hatred. It didn’t whisper doubts. It didn’t ache. It screamed forretaliation, vengeance. And I welcomed the fury. Because at leastthatwas real.
And yet, when Arthur finally stepped from his hiding place—moonlight catching on the polished steel of Caliburn—I had to grip the rough bark of the tree beside me to stop myself from rushing forward, my muscles coiled and ready to protect her.
The contradictions tore through me like physical wounds. She was a liar, a spy, a weapon pointed at the very heart of everything I'd sworn to defend. Every tender moment between us had been calculated deception; every soft word a manipulation crafted to bring down the kingdom I'd given my life to serve.
And still—still—when I saw that blade gleaming in Arthur's grip, when I witnessed the cold fury radiating from his imposing frame as he emerged from the shadows like an avenging specter, my first instinct wasn't justice or vindication.
It was fear that he would harm her.
Fuck!
The curse exploded through my mind with violent force, accompanied by the bitter taste of self-loathing. What kind of fool had I become? What manner of knight protected the enemy who sought to destroy his brothers, his king, his realm? My fingers dug deep into the tree's bark until I felt the sting of broken skin, using pain to anchor myself against the maddening urge to throw myself between them.
“Arthur Pendragon,” Nimue said.
“I have heard confirmation of treason.”
His words struck the air like a verdict already passed.
What followed between them—Arthur and Guinevere—I could only half hear. I strained forward in the underbrush, every nerve taut, catching only snatches of their voices: Arthur’s clipped fury, Guinevere’s low, steady replies. But then I watchedher bow before him, offering Excalibur to him—something that made little sense.
Because it's all artifice—every gesture, every word, every trembling breath—nothing more than elaborate theater. All a carefully orchestrated game where the stakes are kingdoms and the pieces are human hearts, and I'm watching from the shadows like some lovesick fool, unable to distinguish between genuine emotion and masterful manipulation.
The realization cut through me, leaving me hollow and aching. Of course, it was performance. What else could it be? She was Merlin's weapon, honed to perfection, trained to make even her surrender appear authentic. And now she was caught, and she must have realized her fate—death.
But the sincerity in her posture, the rawness of it—the obvious submission as she bowed before Arthur—made me question everything again. If she was performing, then she was a master beyond even Merlin’s teachings.
But there was one piece to this puzzle that left me baffled—one piece I struggled to make sense of: what did it mean that she'd drawn the sword from the stone? That she'd truly pulled Excalibur?
I'd witnessed it with my own eyes.
It's nothing more than Merlin's magic,I told myself.It's a lie. Just like every other lie she's woven since she arrived here.
The wind stirred the trees overhead, rustling leaves like restless whispers, while the thunderous pounding of my own heart filled my ears. I caught fragments—pleas, denials, demands—but the substance escaped me, and I was left helpless in the dark, clawing at bark and silence alike.
