The painful truth was that my fantasies were just that—figments of a lonely heart desperate for connection, for touch, for someone to see me as more than a weapon to train and hone. I wanted to be viewed as a woman.
My lips parted as I shifted, refocusing on Lancelot. His hand had disappeared beneath the woman's skirts, discreetly, yes, but the intent was undeniably clear. The woman responded with a sultry arch, her lips ghosting over his ear. For a heartbeat, time seemed to narrow, and I found myself caught between embarrassment and rapt fascination with what was unfolding in front of me.
Almost immediately, a wave of jealousy overcame me. And I had to catch myself. Why did I care whether Lancelot fingered this woman, ortenothers, for that matter? His desire, the object of his affection—none of it should have touched me the way it did now, with a disquieting hunger kindling in my chest.
I didn't care. Not a whit.
Yet as my gaze shifted further down the grand hall, I quietly knew I'd never be able to dismiss the provocation that Lancelot stirred within me, nor the sudden wish that it could have been me on his lap, accepting the feel of his fingers on me.
What in the gods' names was wrong with me?
The night's celebration spun on, fast strains of minstrel music guiding bodies into motion, but I didn't join them. I stood apart, and when I'd seen enough, I slipped from the feast, pleased when no eyes followed me.
Camelot’s corridors were a maze—by design. A defensive strategy with sharp turns, dead ends, and secret alcoves meant to disorient invaders.
I walked them in quiet thought, mapping every landmark: tapestries, sconce patterns, changes in the stonework beneath my feet that marked shifts from public corridors to restricted wings. My hand brushed the walls, feeling for unnatural drafts—possible signs of hidden passages.
Merlin had drilled the castle into me like another blade technique.
These passages could mean escape if I were ever unmasked. Thus, I committed every detail to memory with the same ferocity I’d once applied to combat training. And I forced myself not to call to mind the expression on Lancelot's face when he touched the woman on his lap.
Back in my chamber, I locked the door.
Only then did Iexhale.
I let my shoulders drop, stretched my arms, and winced at the stiffness from a day of false posture and subtle restraint.
At the basin, I splashed water on my face. My reflection wavered—Sir Lioran’s sharp features staring back until the ripples blurred the lines.
The disguise drained me.
Not the magic—no, that was the easy part. It was thebehavior. The vigilance. The feeling of constantly being someone you are not. What was more, men took up space differently. They moved differently. And they communicated differently. The body of Sir Lioran I could fake with illusion. But the performance of masculinity—that required constant effort.
A knock struck the door.
"A message from Sir Lancelot," a voice called through the heavy oak door—likely one of the castle's many pages or servants who delivered communications between the knights. "All candidates are to report to the training yard at first light tomorrow morning. Come prepared for the next trial—The Labyrinth Trial."
The footsteps retreated down the corridor, echoing off the stone walls until they faded into the general murmur of castle life that never truly ceased, even at this late hour.
CHAPTER EIGHT
-GUIN-
Imentally cataloged the knights I’d observed today.
Percival—with his healing touch and concern for suffering, he might prove to be the closest thing to an ally I could hope to find in this viper's den. There was something refreshingly genuine about the way he carried himself, a transparency that stood in stark contrast to the calculated masks worn by so many others in Camelot's halls.
Kay—his gaze was too sharp, lingered too long, as if he already sensed something wrong beneath my carefully constructed surface. Every time I caught him watching me during the feast, his thin lips curved into that subtle, knowing smile that made my blood run cold.
There was an intelligence behind that bitter expression that went far beyond simple suspicion. He struck me as the type who would discover my deception not through accident or intuition, but through careful observation and deliberate investigation.
He was dangerous in a way that went beyond mere physical threat, and at this stage, I would have marked him as the thirdbiggest threat to my safety and mission, trailing only behind Arthur himself and Lancelot.
Tristan—his death magic was unsettling, a power that whispered of things better left undisturbed. The way darkness seemed to cling to him when he moved, the subtle chill that followed in his presence, the knowledge that he could summon the restless dead with nothing more than a gesture—it all made my skin crawl in ways I couldn't quite articulate. Death magic was perhaps the most unnerving of all the supernatural abilities I had witnessed among these knights.
And yet, despite the macabre nature of his power, something about Tristan himself felt fundamentally different from the calculated menace I sensed in others. Where Kay's sharp gaze promised cruelty and Lancelot's presence radiated barely contained violence, Tristan carried himself with an almost melancholic grace that seemed at odds with his deadly abilities. Almost as if there was a poet's soul lurking beneath that handsome exterior—something wounded and romantic that made him feel less like a predator and more like a fellow wanderer lost between worlds.
Or perhaps that was just dangerous thinking.
