"What else? Ban magic for years, make it a crime punishable by death, but now he’s collectin’ mage knights? Madness."
"First magic is evil, now it’s state-sanctioned? Which is it?"
I sipped my ale slowly. These weren’t rebels or spies—just villagers sorting through contradictions. And it confirmed what Merlin had warned: Arthur’s hypocrisy wasn’t hidden. It echoed from every ale-warmed mouth.
Later, in the safety of my room, I bolted the door and drew the threadbare curtains tight. A lone candle was the only light. Floorboards creaked as I moved to the rickety table where a chipped basin sat filled with water.
I approached the basin of water, hands trembling with anticipation. The dim glint from the candle lit the surface in a flickering dance, transforming the water into liquid silver. The moment my fingertips skimmed the surface, it responded like an extension of myself, eager and alive. I closed my eyes, grounding myself in the rhythm of my heartbeat, the magic coiling beneath my skin like a waiting serpent.
"Return to water."
The words left my lips like a final tether snapping. The illusion anchored to my body quivered, sending shivering ripples across the false contours of my disguise. My true form called out, and the hardened water-skin cracked. Light danced along the fractures, weaving threads that splintered and reformed. The illusion's dissolution was always beautiful in its own way—layers of false flesh peeling back like flower petals, revealing glimpses of my true self beneath. My white hair caught the candlelight first, no longer the grizzled gray of the old man.
Once more myself, I pulled away from the basin, dust motes catching the candlelight as I breathed deeply, settling into my restored form.
It was now time to check in with Merlin—to tell him I'd made it this far without discovery. The water's surface remained still as glass, waiting for my command to bridge the distance between this cramped tavern room and the twilight realm I'd left behind.
I pressed both palms flat against the worn wooden table, steadying myself as I touched the water's surface with trembling fingertips. The liquid responded instantly to my magic, rippling outward in perfect concentric circles. Drawing on the ancient words Merlin had drilled into me during countless training sessions, I whispered the incantation that would pierce the veil between our worlds:
"Scáthán uisce, droichead idir domhain, taispeáin dom mo mháistir."
The old words vibrated through the stale air of the tavern room, each syllable heavy with power and purpose. The water began to shimmer, its surface tension crackling with magical energy that made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. The single candle's flame dimmed to barely an ember, as if the spell was drawing light itself into the basin. Shadows deepened in the corners of the room, and for a moment, I felt the familiar sensation of existing between two places at once.
Then, as clearly as if I were peering through a window, Merlin's study emerged in the water's reflection—that cluttered sanctuary where I'd spent countless hours learning to harness the magic that flowed through my veins. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, their shelves sagging under the weight of ancient tomes and scrolls. Even the air seemed to shimmer with residual magic from his countless experiments. His massive desk dominated the center of the room, covered in star charts, alchemical instruments, and the remnants of whatever arcane work had occupied his attention.
His face soon followed in the rippling surface, those storm-gray eyes finding mine across the distance.
"I’ve crossed the stones safely," I whispered. "I’ll reach Camelot by tomorrow morning."
"Be cautious, child," he said, his voice distorted but strong. "The walls of Camelot have ears. Trust no one—not servants, not knights, and certainly not the king."
-GUIN-
I woke at dawn and reassembled my disguise by again pulling the water from the air.
Becoming Sir Lioran now felt instinctive—less a disguise, more a second skin. I examined my reflection in the basin: I appeared as a feminine man, certainly, but a man all the same. Short dark blond hair, a soft jawline, heavy brows. My violet eyes were now masked in blue, though my skin still held its pale tone. I was still twenty-three, but now every inch a man. My height was the same—three inches over five feet—just now more suited to the body I wore.
While disguise magic wasn't particularly difficult in itself, there were subtle techniques one could employ to make the transformation far more manageable—such as maintaining fundamental aspects like one's natural height and weight. These physical constants served as anchors, requiring less energy to sustain. The disguise then simply became like an elaborate cloth covering, artfully concealing the most discernible features that would betray my true identity.
The real skill lay not in complete transformation, but in the delicate art of selective alteration. Each unchanged element meant less strain on my concentration, less risk of the illusion wavering at a crucial moment. My bones remained my bones, my frame mostly unchanged—only the surface shifted, like water reshaping itself around familiar stones.
By late morning, I rode through Camelot’s towering gates. The guards gave my papers a token glance—far more swayed by my armor and horse than by any seal. The castle swelled in scale with each step Shade took, white stone shimmering in the sun—marred only by the ominous fracture streaking the central tower.
Now, among dozens of candidates in the Great Hall, I wrestled to steady my breath. The hall was breathtaking—vaulted ceilings lost in shadow above enchanted crystal chandeliers throwing golden light across the room. Pendragonbanners draped from the rafters, crimson dragons shifting with each stir of air, as if alive.
The court nobility packed the gallery—an opulent tide of silk and gemstones against dark oak panels. Ladies whispered behind jeweled fans, their hair sculpted like crownwork. Men in velvet doublets preened and posed, reminding me of gawking birds. Their decadence was obscene—a performative display in a kingdom where farmers scraped for bread. These privileged few reaped Arthur’s peace while dodging its cost.
I placed myself among the other knights deliberately—neither too bold at the front nor too meek at the rear. I was just one more eager man hunting glory under Arthur’s banner.
But gods, the irony seared. Here I stood—deep in the heart of the kingdom that would hang me without trial if it knew who and what I truly was. The same kingdom that had murdered my parents.
It was a dangerous thought—one that instantly brought ire coursing through me, my hands clenching involuntarily at my sides as I fought to keep my expression neutral before the assembled court.
Focus, Guin,I thought to myself.Rage is a luxury you can’t afford right now. Calm your feelings so you don't threaten your disguise.
As I scanned the hall, my eyes locked—almost instinctively—on the figure seated atop the Dragon Throne.
Arthur Pendragon himself.
