The invisible lines of power revealed themselves quickly.
Northern lords clustered tight, their booming laughter masking tense debates. Southern nobles orbited Arthur’s table, offering polished compliments with calculated intent. Lancelot moved between them like a silent blade—parting the crowd without effort, commanding every table he passed.
I found myself watching him too closely.
There was grace in his movement—precision married to raw strength. No gesture wasted. No motion unconsidered. And more than that, othersfelthim coming. Knights straightened when he passed. Lords stumbled over their words. Lancelot didn't speak unless directly addressed, and when he did, it was with measured brevity.
A southern lord, already deep in his cups, tried to trap Lancelot in some drunken tale of conquest, but Lancelot ended the conversation in three sentences and a polite nod that sent the man back to his seat, flushed with embarrassment.
I didn’t know what held my attention more—the contrast between his deadly reputation and quiet restraint, or the shadow of something I couldn't name—was it boredom?—that seemed stitched into the seams of his silence. Whatever it was, it was intriguing.
Don’t find him intriguing,I warned myself.You’re not here to find anyone intriguing.
That was true.
And more troubling—Lancelot, as leader of the King's Guard, could have been the one who called the order to murder my parents. I would likely never discover the truth, as Iimagined such things as murder had become commonplace over recent years.
Regardless, the thought hit me like a stone in the chest.
If Lancelot had a hand in their deaths, I would seek my revenge against him, just as I planned to do with Arthur.
Speaking of which, I forced my gaze to the king.
He sat at the high table, posture perfect, crown glinting in the firelight as he surveyed his kingdom. His eyes swept the room, pausing on every knight who’d impressed him: Agravaine with his wind magic, Galahad with his piercing light. I noticed Arthur's gaze purposely avoided Tristan.
But strangely, Arthur’s gaze returned to metoooften—his expression unreadable. Was it suspicion in his eyes? I doubted it was admiration, as I hadn't impressed him with my display during the Summoning Trial. Was it recognition of something in my magic that echoed Merlin’s hand?
I held Lioran’s calm, steady mask, meeting the king’s gaze with a respectful nod before looking away. Not too eager. Not too aloof.
“Quite the display you put on today, Sir Lioran.”
Tristan.
I hadn’t seen him approach.
He appeared effortlessly at my side, voice smooth. “Your water magic has… unusual qualities.”
“As does your necromancy. Not many can make hardened warriors petrified.”
He smiled faintly. “Death is but the other side of life. No more. No less."
Before I could respond, the room's painted butterflies descended on the handsome knight as if they'd been waiting for this exact moment all evening. Gowns of silk, lips of crimson, voices laced with sugar and aim. The women gathered around Tristan like petals drawn to sunlight. He let them, his thoughtfulexpression dissolving behind a practiced smile. One draped herself across his arm. Another whispered something that made him laugh, head tilted back in effortless charm.
"If you'll excuse me, Sir Lioran," he said, and I just nodded, watching him disappear in the midst of silk, velvet, and cleavage.
I nodded briefly to Percival when he passed. As soon as he started toward me, a cluster of young lords intercepted him, barraging him with questions. And that was just as well. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
I turned my attention back to the room's orchestrated chaos, yet again finding Lancelot as though drawn by unseen threads. He sat at one of the larger tables now, a woman draped across his lap. Beside him was a large goblet, and I was surprised as I watched him lift it, throwing his head back to accommodate a few large gulps. But then I remembered that Lancelot was taken with drink and women. And I supposed here was a good example.
His eyes softened as he looked at the woman who now had her arms looped around his neck. In his expression was desire, palpable even through the noise and blur of wine. The look he gave the woman was one of pure want, unfiltered and unrestrained.
Gentle envy wove through my curiosity, an unfamiliar sensation edging closer to longing. No man had ever looked at me like that, with raw want. In fact, very few men had ever looked at me at all. Merlin and Corvin hadn't allowed it.
There had been Hardric, of course, and the one moment of a stolen kiss that I had relived more times than I cared to admit. But then Corvin had swooped down on us like a vengeful deity, plucking me away to the East Tower's cold solitude. And there he and Merlin had trained me in solitude, keeping me separate from all the others.
Yes, it was also true that in the darkest hours of night, when sleep eluded me and the castle lay in silence, I allowed my mind to wander into forbidden territory. In some of my most private fantasies—those secret moments when my imagination ran wild and my own fingers traced patterns of desire across my skin—I conjured vivid images of Corvin doing unspeakable, deliciously wicked things to me. I imagined his hands replacing mine, his mouth hot against my throat, his body pressed against mine in ways that made my breath catch even in memory.
But the cold, harsh reality that greeted me each dawn was far more sobering. Corvin was nothing more than my tutor and my shadow—a man bound by duty and Merlin's commands to keep me safe, to train me, to mold me into the weapon my father required. He saw me as a student, a responsibility, perhaps even a burden. Never as a woman worthy of desire, never as someone who could inspire the kind of raw hunger I'd just witnessed pass between Lancelot and his willing companion.
