The crowd pressed closer despite their revulsion, drawn by the terrible fascination of witnessing something that violated every natural law known to man.
Tristan, still holding his hands outstretched before him in that commanding gesture, simply took a few measured steps backward. His movements were deliberate and graceful, as if he were conducting some dark symphony only he could hear. As we all watched in horrified silence, the corpse began to stir. Ancient joints creaked like rusted hinges. Desiccated muscles twitched beneath tattered flesh. Then, with a sound like breaking branches, the thing rose.
A collective gasp rippled through the assembled courtiers. More than one noble lady crumpled to the ground in a dead faint, their silken gowns pooling around them like spilled wine. Even seasoned knights took involuntary steps backward, hands moving instinctively to sword hilts.
The thing wasn't shambling, nor mindless. It moved with purpose, the memory of movement overriding decay. Tristan unsheathed his sword and handed it to his creation. The thing wielded the blade as though remembering its former life, and with that, Tristan bowed.
The silence that followed was absolute.
I'd watched faces around me drain of color. I heard someone retch behind the crowd. Death magic was one thing in theory, quite another when you watched rotted hands grip a blade right in front of you.
But Arthur's reaction struck me hardest.
His expression had gone cold. Not disgusted like the others, butfuriousin a way that transcended mere distaste for necromancy. His knuckles had whitened around the arms of his throne, and for one breathless moment, I thought he might order Tristan seized on the spot.
Then Mordred leaned close, whispering something that made Arthur's jaw relax. Arthur nodded once—sharp, controlled—and announced Sir Tristan's advancement to the next trial.
"The king didn't care for that display," Percival observed now, pulling me back to the present.
"No, he didn't."
Percival laughed—a genuine, unrestrained sound that cut through the polished stillness of the corridor like sunlight. It sounded almost strange. Human. Real.
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, Sir Lioran.”
My blood chilled as I turned to him, my face remaining neutral. “What secret?”
He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “That you’re actually kind.” Then he winked. “Terrible quality in a knight. Best keep it hidden.”
Relief washed through me. For the first time since embarking on this mission, I laughed. AsLioran. And it felt… oddly good.
“I’ll guard that weakness carefully.”
“Good.” Then he paused. “I hope you will join me at the banquet. I despise formal dinners, yet they become more bearable with someone who doesn’t converse in threats or drone on endlessly about their achievements.”
Before I could respond, Sir Kay appeared—shouldering between us like a wolf carving through sheep. His lips curled in their perpetual sneer as he forced Percival back a step. Every move was deliberate. A dominance display.
Merlin had grossly undersold his unpleasantness.
Up close, Kay's presence was heavy, suffocating. Lines were carved around his mouth by years of bitterness. His eyes roved over me, clearly searching for weakness as was his nature, and I had toforcemyself not to check if my illusion was still intact.
“Charming water tricks, Lioran,” he said, his voice soaked in acid. “Almost… delicate, wouldn’t you say?”
That word.
Delicate.
I held Lioran’s posture—square shoulders, wide stance, a knight’s stillness.
“While you search for weaknesses, Sir Kay, I prefer to find adaptability. Different approaches for different challenges.”
A beat of silence.
Then Kay’s lip curled higher—somewhere between a snarl and a smile. But he didn’t press further.
Not yet.
“Interesting philosophy,” he offered, his voice smooth as a blade’s edge. “I wonder how it will serve you in the combat trials to come.” He stepped closer, just enough to lower his voice. “Water against steel tends to… evaporate.”
