More knights followed, each displaying their gifts.
One forged molten metal with his bare hands, shaping it like clay. Another spoke to animals—a dog, a bird, and, strangely enough, a lizard—and they answered his silent call, doing whatever it was he asked them to do. A third wove voices from thin air, mimicking anyone's voice with unsettling accuracy.
Through it all, I watched Arthur.
His attention sharpened only when magic revealed tactical value. Anything with battlefield potential earned a nod or the faint twitch of a smile. But when a young mage created living sculptures of flowering vines that danced through the air and filled the hall with blossoms, the king barely concealed his boredom.
Behind the stillness of his expression, something colder churned—something calculating.
My chest tightened. Now it wasmyturn.
Everything Merlin and I had planned came down to this moment. We’d rehearsed for weeks—how to bejust impressive enoughto advance through the trial, but never so extraordinary as to draw scrutiny.
Stand out among candidates. Blend in among threats. A performance of perfect balance. Memorable as a knight. Forgettable as a person. Exactly what a spy needs to be.
The knight before me—a burly man-at-arms from the eastern provinces—fumbled his demonstration, warping his own gauntlet in a clumsy attempt at transmutation. Arthur dismissed him with a curt flick of the hand.
And then I stepped forward.
Sir Lioran. A knight from the Northern Borderlands. Quiet. Unfamiliar. Small.
The great hall seemed to expand around me, swallowing me whole as dozens of eyes turned to appraise the newcomer. I felt their curiosity sharpen. Courtiers leaned forward, whispering behind jeweled fans. Doubt crossed almost every one of their faces.
I was undeniably the smallest candidate in the room.
Not only that, but my magic—fluid, adaptive, intuitive—had always carried a distinctly feminine quality. Most male water mages leaned toward ice or steam, embracing forms that were forceful, explosive, aggressive.
Mine was different. Subtle. Controlled. Beautiful.
ButLiorancouldn’t be beautiful.
“Sir Lioran,” Mordred announced, his voice echoing through the stone chamber, “you hail from the Northern Provinces." I nodded. He continued, "Demonstrate your magical affinity.”
I swallowed, grounding myself. Center. Focus. I reached—not for grandeur, but for presence. Every droplet of moisture in the room answered my call, as it always had: water in the air, the stone, the bodies of the watching crowd. The water welcomed me.
I drew it in slowly.
A shimmer of condensation formed across the flagstones at my feet. Then droplets rose, gathering midair, coalescing into a single, perfect sphere of water at eye level.
I shaped it—carefully—using movements that mimicked masculine control: sharp, angular gestures, not my natural, flowing style.
The sphere twisted and stretched.
A miniature replica of Camelot took shape in the air—each tower rendered in crystalline clarity, every battlement precise. Murmurs swept the hall. I let a thin crack form down the central tower, mirroring the real fracture. Gasps followed. With a final snap of my hand, I sealed that gap, restoring Camelot in miniature until it was whole. Unbroken.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed.
Too much?The symbolism might have been seen as presumptuous—healingCamelot’s wound before the court when the king had been unable?
But then he nodded, just once. Barely a shift of his head.
He wasn't impressed by my offer, just as I knew he wouldn't be. Just as I'd planned.
“That will do,” Mordred said. “You may join those who have passed the first trial.”
As I moved to stand among the successful candidates, I felt the weight of another gaze—different from Arthur’s.
Lancelot.
