That rift wasn’t just structural—it marked a fracture that had split the realm itself. Merlin said it appeared the night he fled, when Arthur’s betrayal was sealed and the first witch-fires lit in the courtyard below.
A knot tightened in my chest. This wasn’t just a fortress to infiltrate; it was Camelot—epicenter of legends, symbol of a realm once unified. All the while, I couldn't help but wonder: how could something so breathtaking house such cruelty? How could this beauty belong to a tyrant who executed farmers for raising a child born with magic?
Entering the village of Caldrith, the North Star Inn appeared around a bend, lights flickering through the dusk. Its timbered silhouette beckoned like a promise—food, shelter, anonymity. Smoke drifted from the chimney, rich with the scent of roasting meat. My stomach clenched.
I led Shade to the stable. She nickered softly as I untacked her, her flanks warm beneath my hands. I murmured comfort as I brushed her down—nonsense words to soothe us both. I was fairly sure this would be our last moment alone.
I was already disguised as Sir Lioran, but after the stilted reaction I'd received at the Wyrm and Whetstone, tonight I needed to be someone different—someone invisible.
I checked to be sure we were alone, then I reached for the water in the air, using it to fuel my magic, allowing it to move through me like a river current. Illusion settled over my skin—shoulders slumping, spine curving, hands knotted with imaginary age. My cloak hung long, my tunic threadbare. My hair grayed and thinned. I became an old man, bent from decades of toil.
Disguising myself wasn't a simple glamour. It was a water-forged illusion anchored within my body—a shifting layer ofenchanted water that mimicked flesh, structure, and voice. Water was fluid, adaptive, reflective, and my magic used those properties to reshape how I was perceived whileslightlyaltering my physical characteristics.
Where the true difficulty lay was in regulating my emotions because my water magic was tied to my feelings. If I panicked, the illusion would ripple. If I were exhausted, the magic became more fragile. My disguises required constant, low-level magic—a steady flow to keep the façade stable. The magic wasn't draining, but it was fallible. An inordinate amount of my magical training with Merlin had focused on how to regulate my emotions—how to protect my disguise even when my emotions were running rampant.
Merlin had woven a dampening spell around me before I left Annwyn—a ward so intricate it had taken him three days to complete. The spell didn't suppress my magic entirely. Instead, it masked the residual energy that typically leaked from active spellwork.
Without it, my disguise would have sent ripples through the magical fabric around me, like throwing stones into still water, alerting the King's Guard. The dampening spell was my lifeline. It absorbed the magical signature I emitted, dispersing it harmlessly into the ambient energy that existed everywhere. To any observer—magical or mundane—I appeared utterly ordinary.
But the ward had limitations. Strong emotions could overwhelm it. Direct magical combat would shred it entirely. And if I pushed my abilities too hard, the dampening might fracture, exposing me in a burst of uncontained power. I imagined that once I entered the Shadow Trials, the dampening spell would be destroyed, but by then it wouldn't matter because all the contestants would be relying on their magic. For now, though, I couldn't afford any magical leaks.
Pulling more water from the air, I turned my magic to Shade next, softening her lines until she appeared sway-backed and neglected, with ribs pressing through a patchy coat. I clouded her eyes, gave her a limp, and marked her with a brand belonging to a fictional noble too intimidating to question.
Shade snorted, annoyed.
"Just until morning, beautiful."
Despite the disguise, her nobility remained.
I limped toward the inn's heavy wooden door, my cloak pulled tight against the bitter wind that cut through the valley like a blade. The warm glow spilling from the windows promised blessed relief, not just from the chill but from the constant strain of being someone else entirely.
More than anything, I was eager to release the disguise of Sir Lioran so I could become myself once more. The anticipation of letting my water magic dissolve back into its natural state made my fingers tingle beneath my gloves. Not only was it relieving to shed the false skin—like finally exhaling after holding one's breath for too long—but it was also absolutely necessary.
"Ale and whatever’s hot," I rasped to the innkeeper, settling at a table near the hearth. Close enough to listen, distant enough to blend in. I let the shadows curl around me, merging with my surroundings.
A barmaid brought my drink, promising food soon.
"Taxes are higher than ever," a farmer grumbled, slapping the table. He was bald but had compensated with the rug on his face. "And what do we get? More patrols sniffin’ for 'witches' where there ain’t none—the king's already sniffed 'em all out."
His companion, a man whose nose dominated his face, nodded. "Me cousin’s boy made a flower bloom some years ago. Just touched it. Six years old. Gone without a trace."
I leaned back, letting the hearth's warmth seep into me. Discontent ran thick through the men's words, something thatsurprised me given that I was now this far south. Camelot was maybe another five or so miles away. I would not have imagined I'd hear such conversations this close to the capital city. Those harboring hostility toward the crown typically dwelled far north, nearest Annwyn's border.
Yet these men spoke openly, unguarded in their resentment toward Arthur's rule. And it wasn’t mild grumbling. Every point was driven with anger, punctuated by the clatter of mugs against wood—a melody of malcontent harmonizing through the tavern.
"Mayhap the king's gone mad."
"Aye. Me brother works in the castle," Nose added. "Says Arthur barely sleeps. They see him pacing back an' forth all hours o' the night, jumpin' at shadows." He paused. "Something's got him right scared, mark my words."
"Mind what you say," the innkeeper warned. "Loose tongues find nooses."
"Aye, true-true."
I leaned in, absorbing every word.
"That’s why the king started them Shadow Trials," Baldy continued. "Mark me."
"You think?"
