I woke gasping, my body drenched in sweat, my hand pressed between my legs where I ached with the phantom sensation of numerous orgasms and the memory of Arthur's expression riding my mind.
It was just a dream.
"Hoot. Hoot."
I turned to see the owl sitting on the stone ledge outside my window, watching me with those unnaturally intelligent eyes that glowed molten gold in the pre-dawn darkness. The creature's feathers were pristine white touched with silver, its body larger than any ordinary owl I'd ever seen. My window was still open, the cool night air drifting through and carrying the scent of roses from the gardens below, though I could have sworn I'd closed and latched it before going to bed.
"I must be losing my mind."
The owl tilted its head at an almost human angle, studying me.
"You again," I whispered, my voice still rough from sleep and the lingering terror of my nightmare. Of course, I recognized that it was just another instance of the same dream that had been haunting me. Yet, it felt so real.
The creature's golden gaze never wavered.
"I should be getting back to bed."
Tomorrow was an important day—the second of the Shadow Trials. That meant I was right—I needed my sleep. Yet, I couldn’t convince myself to lie down—not after the nightmare had awakened me so fully.
"Hoot. Hoot."
When I turned to face my bed once more, I could not bring myself to lie back down. No, the nightmare had awakened me fully, and I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep any time soon.
Perhaps this is the perfect time for some reconnaissance,I mused. Most everyone in the castle would be deep in slumber at this hour—the servants exhausted from their daily labors, the knights resting before tomorrow's trials, even the guards likely drowsy at their posts during the quiet stretch between midnight and dawn.
This sleepless night could prove far more advantageous than merely torturous—a blessing disguised as restless agony.Even though I'd spent countless hours studying detailed maps of Camelot under Merlin's meticulous tutelage, memorizing every tower and battlement until I could navigate the fortress blindfolded, there remained nothing quite like seeing Arthur's stronghold with my own eyes. The parchment sketches, no matter how precise, could never capture the subtle details that might prove crucial to my mission.
My pulse quickened at the prospect. This restless energy from my nightmare needed an outlet anyway, and what better way to channel it than in service of my mission?
I drew in a steadying breath and summoned moisture from the air, shaping a fine mist to swirl around me. As it thickened, I molded the illusion—not Sir Lioran’s broad frame and sharp jawline—as I didn't want to encourage questions about why he was walking the castle corridors at this time of night—but the form of a simple servant girl.
I kept my true features—crafting a different face would demand too much magic after the day’s strain. Besides, no one knew my real face here. No, tonight I would blend in as a simple maid—no one of importance.
Mist swirled around me as I shaped my illusion: the kirtle fit closely against my frame in practical but durable linen, perfect for the silent, quick movements of a scullery maid. Over the kirtle, an overgown hung in muted tones, almost a whisper against the stone walls. The sleeves extended just past my wrists, humble but functional, fit for endless scrubbing and cleaning. On my feet, I conjured simple slippers, well-worn but reliable for navigating Camelot's endless corridors. I added a few strategic details: a frayed hem that suggested long hours of work, slightly worn patches at the elbows, and a smudge of dirt on one cheek that implied I’d been tending fires or scrubbing floors. And to ward away the cold? A dark wool cloak.
What is a servant without a prop?I thought to myself as I eyed my scarcely furnished room, and my gaze settled on the chamber pot in the corner. I grabbed the pot, glancing at it with distaste. It was necessary but unsavory all the same. A trusty companion to help sell the deception, albeit a pungent one.
My heart tapped a rhythm of expectancy as I slipped into the corridor’s shadowy embrace. With the pot cradled securely, I was no longer simply Guin, nor Sir Lioran; I was anonymous—a ghost in Arthur's castle, invisible to the waking world.
In Camelot's rigid hierarchy, servants were part of the architecture, as unremarkable as the stones in the wall. Knights and nobles looked through them rather than at them. Even other servants barely noticed one another, assuming unfamiliar faces belonged to distant wings of the castle.
But illusion was more than appearance.
So, I rounded my shoulders and lowered my gaze. A meek expression, trained to deflect attention. Merlin had always said the best disguises weren’t about changing the face, but embodying the life behind the guise.
In this moment, I was no one, and I needed to embody exactly that.
I slipped into the corridor, head bowed. Two guards passed—neither spared me a glance. A drunken knight staggered by without pause. I kept to the shadows, mimicking the hurried pace of true servants, my steps confident but deferential. The late hour worked to my advantage—nobles too deep in their cups, halls thinned of the watchful and sober.
The grand halls narrowed into servant passages—cracked stone walls patched with haste, damp seeping through the plaster. Camelot's polished splendor gave way to its aging spine. It was almost as if I could scent the kingdom’s rot that lay just beneath the surface.
Even though I’d intended to explore the inner castle, I somehow found myself drawn outside, my steps a silent rebellion against my own intentions. It was as if the landscape itself whispered demands I couldn't yet comprehend, but my body answered them all the same.
The courtyard loomed first—empty. Quiet. But that didn't mean it wouldn't be attended by the night duty guards. I inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp night air after the heavy stench of wine, perfume, and sweat in the great hall. The scent of freedom—cool, clean, and sharp—now filled my lungs. A fountain dominated the courtyard’s center, water flowing from the outstretched hand of a marble statue of Arthur, eternally frozen in the act of drawing his legendary sword—Excalibur—from stone. Roses bloomed wildly around its base—blood reds, pale pinks, and flame-colored oranges.
I looked up at that statue and felt my hands clench because I detested everything it stood for. Everythingthe kingstood for.
"What are you doing out here, girl?"
