Dangerous territory. Especially here.
“I’m honored by your notice, my lord,” I said, my voice even. “I seek only to serve where my talents are most needed.”
A non-answer. By design.
Carlisle’s gaze sharpened. And then—amusement. A small, knowing smile touched the corner of his mouth. He recognized the maneuver: neither allegiance nor defiance. A precise balancing act.
“Indeed,” he said quietly. “From what house do you descend?”
I swallowed hard, the weight of deception settling like cold steel against my ribs. This was going to be a sticking point, but I had no alternatives.
"I hail from no great houses, my lord," I answered, keeping my voice steady despite the thundering of my heart. "My lineage is... humble."
Carlisle's weathered brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his features. In a world where bloodlines determined everything—from land rights to marriage prospects to the very armor on one's back—a knight without noble ancestry was an anomaly that defied explanation.
"Then who champions you?" he pressed, his tone sharpening with genuine bewilderment.
This was the moment I had been dreading. I swallowed again. "Dame Yseldra of Fenwick Vale, my lord."
I held my breath, waiting for recognition to dawn in Carlisle's eyes—if Carlisle knew the political landscape of the far north (which, of course, he did), then he would also know that Yseldra was as loyal to the old ways as it was possible to be.My connection to her would hint at the same about me. As far as Camelot was concerned, Yseldra was a dangerous champion to have, yes, but she was also the only Northern noble who was willing to risk her own neck to support this mission. My job was to quell any suspicions Arthur might have about me in connection to her.
Carlisle's features relaxed, uncertainty giving way to thoughtful consideration. "I am not familiar with her or her house," he admitted, though his tone held no suspicion—merely the resigned acknowledgment of a man who understood that the northern territories were vast and sparsely populated, their minor nobility as numerous as they were obscure.
Did I believe him? I wasn't certain. While it was possible he did not know Yseldra personally, Carlisle was a man who made it his business to know most things.
"We should speak further when time permits, Sir Lioran."
I struggled to comprehend why a lord of Carlisle's evident stature and political acumen would seek my company at all. My lineage was humble—even my champion was no one of note. I was simply a knight representing a minor house from the northern reaches, unremarkable in wealth or influence.
Moreover, my performance in The Summoning Trial had been deliberately restrained, carefully calculated to appear competent but unremarkable. By all reasonable assessments, I should have been utterly forgettable to a man like Carlisle—just another knight seeking glory in Arthur's trials, possessing neither the bloodline nor the demonstrated talent that typically attracted the interest of established lords.
With careful deliberation, he raised two fingers to his chest—positioning them just over his heart in what appeared to be a casual gesture.
But it was much more than that, and I recognized it immediately. An ancient gesture. A sign of magical fellowship. Nearly forgotten in modern Logres.
Forgotten, but not gone.
-LANCE-
I studied the knights who had survived the first trial with the practiced eye of a man who had measured countless opponents. Thirty-five knights stood in the Great Hall, their summoned constructs still fresh in my memory—some brilliant, others merely adequate.
Kay's presence here surprised no one. Arthur's foster brother had a gift for surviving anything, cockroach-like in his persistence. The sharp-featured bastard stood apart from the others, arms crossed, his expression carrying its usual sneer. I had seen him cut down better men with nothing but words, his tongue deadlier than most knights' swords.
Sir Galahad had passed, as expected—he was and always had been highly powerful. Sir Gareth of Orkney and his brother, Gawain of Orkney, as well. Both were proven warriors who'd earned their reputations in blood and steel. Men who looked the part they played.
But two names stood out, unfamiliar weights on an otherwise known list.
Sir Tristan of Lyonesse was the first.
The exotic knight was all grace and flowing movement, dark curls catching the morning light. But I'd seen what he'd summoned—shadows and death given form, creatures pulled from the grave itself.Necromancy.The word tasted foul eventhinking it. A man who commanded the dead posed questions I didn't care for. What kind of knight built his power on corpses? What battles had he fought that required such dark magic?
I made a mental note to watch him. Men who trafficked with death often found themselves too comfortable with creating it.
Then there was Sir Lioran of the borderlands.
I frowned, gaze settling on the slight figure among the rest of them. He was entirely too small. Too delicate. The kind of build that belonged in a monastery, not a battlefield. Arthur could claim he wanted the best and brightest, but the Round Table needed more than clever party tricks. We needed warriors who could stand in a shield wall, who could turn back invasions, who inspired fear in our enemies just by appearing on the field.
And Sir Lioran looked like a strong wind might knock him over.
