But there was nothing. Interesting.
Turning to face the rest of the room, I expanded the sweep, sending my detection magic above the bed, behind the washbasin, near the window, and across the doorframe. One could never be too careful…
Each time, my magic extended outward like a net. And each time, it returned empty.
No surveillance spells. No wards. No trace of enchantment.
And that struck me as odd.
In a castle ruled by a king obsessed with control—especially magical control—this room was shockingly… innocent.
As I continued to ponder the implications of an unenchanted room in Camelot, I crossed to the window for a breath of fresh air.
Outside, sprawling gardens stretched toward the outer walls, their geometric designs standing in stark contrast to the wild lands beyond. But it wasn't the gardens that captured my attention—a shadow moved in the tree closest to my window, a dark silhouette amidst the leafy branches.
An owl. Both massive and majestic, it was perched in the tree just outside my window with wide eyes the color of amber.
"What a beautiful creature you are."
"Hoot."
For a moment, we locked gazes, and the bird just stared at me.
Then, without warning, the owl stretched its broad wings and took off into the air, ascending into the sky with powerful strokes. I watched until it vanished into the clouds, leaving an unsettling emptiness behind.
-GUIN-
Lancelot entered the hall quietly, without ceremony, yet somehow pulling every eye to him the moment he crossed the threshold. Even mine.
He’d traded his training gambeson for a deep indigo tunic, the color so rich it seemed stolen from the night sky itself. It fit him too well—broad shoulders stretching the fabric, narrow waist accentuated by a black leather belt with a silver clasp shaped like a growling wolf. His surcoat hung open, sleeveless, embroidered in gold thread that caught the torchlight and sketched the outline of a warrior who moved far too gracefully for a man built of muscle and scars.
His dark hair, still damp from washing away the day's trials, was tied back at the nape of his neck. A few rebellious strands fell loose, brushing his cheeks.
But it was his eyes that undid me.
Not because they were sharp or beautiful—though they were both—but because they didn’t soften here, in the place where every other knight allowed himself to relax. Lancelot didn’t. His gaze slid over the hall without lingering on any one person for long.
And when those eyes found me, something in his posture shifted. Barely. A tightening of his jaw, a breath he didn’t take all the way in.
Heat climbed up my neck.
He looked away first.
But not before giving me that glance—brief, assessing, intimate in a way that felt dangerous. A look that said he saw something in me the disguise didn’t quite hide. Something soft. Something wrong. Something that displeased him.
He took his seat two places down from Arthur, his mantle sliding from his shoulder as he sat. He didn’t smile. He didn’t boast. He didn’t join the others in drowning their nerves in wine.
Lancelot simply existed, a gravity unto himself, the kind of man whose presence pressed heat into the space around him.
I would enjoy cutting him down when the time came. And I'd already promised myself that timewouldcome, regardless of what Merlin said.
Pulling my attention from the legendary knight, I focused on the Great Hall, which was currently overflowing with knights and nobles. Their voices clashed like steel—boasts, exaggerated war stories, and court gossip passed between wine-wet lips. Jeweled goblets gleamed beside pretentious smiles and barbed gossip, as hundreds of candles threw flickering light from the iron chandeliers far above.
While noblewomen of the court were suspiciously absent, serving girls in gauzy linen that concealed little, and women of ambiguous status—dancers, musicians, companions with painted lips and knowing smiles—moved in their place. They floated among the knights and noblemen, draping themselves across laps, whispering promises or flattery in eager ears.
There was a current of debauchery beneath the splendor—a rot just beneath the surface. This was not the Camelotof Merlin’s stories. This wasArthur’sCamelot. A kingdom of power, not purity. And it was interesting to watch.
I positioned myself near a pillar, wine in hand, barely sipping. Intoxication was a luxury I couldn’t afford—not with my life balanced on the edge of illusion. Instead, I observed.
