Ahead, the stream vanished beneath the castle’s outer wall, funneled through a rusted iron grate. The grate was too narrow to fit through—but I had no choice. I couldn't turn around. Icould only hope the grate was more forgiving under the water. My chest tightened with dread.
Get through or die.
I pressed against the cold metal, searching the corroded edges for any signs of give or weakness. One corner had decayed just enough—barely a gap.
It would have to do.
I ducked beneath the surface, the water closing over my head like a liquid shroud. I twisted, shoulders angled, arms tucked, forcing myself through the gap. Rusted iron tore through the fabric of my clothing, then through my flesh. I bit back a scream as pain bloomed across my back. The grate caught me—trapped my cloak—my body wedged in the narrow maw.
Move. Move. MOVE.
But I couldn't move. I was jammed, and I did exactly what I shouldn't have. In all the chaos and shock of being pursued, my body betrayed me—panic overriding training as I inhaled sharply.
The water should have slammed into my lungs, drowning me in this narrow channel beneath Camelot's ancient walls. My mind screamed for air, for the familiar burn of oxygen filling my chest. Instead, something impossible happened—the water flowed into my lungs as naturally as the sweetest air, cool and life-giving.
My chest rose and fell in a natural rhythm beneath the current, as if I'd been born to this underwater existence. The sensation was both terrifying and miraculous—like discovering I had wings when falling from a cliff. This wasn't magic I'd trained for; it wasn't an ability Merlin had taught me to harness. This was something deeper, something that came from the marrow of my bones.
I could breathe underwater. For a heartbeat, I forgot the pursuit, forgot the danger, lost myself in the wonder of this newfound gift.
Then—something gave—the cloak ripped as I surged forward. Metal groaned against corroded rivets, or perhaps it was flesh surrendering to desperate need—I didn't know which, and in that moment, I didn't care. All I knew was the blessed relief as I slipped through that small gap, my body sliding free like a sword from its sheath.
A gasp tore from my throat when I finally broke the surface into the outer bailey, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I was inside the castle walls.
And I was alive.
For now.
I emerged from the stream, water pooling around my slippers as I staggered forward. The servants’ quarters loomed ahead—low thatched roofs hunched beneath the towering walls of Camelot.
I glanced behind.
I was alone. No guards. No hounds. No one.
I slipped into the shadows between the bakehouse and chandlery, pressing my back to the cold stone. The quiet felt deafening. I counted each breath, steadying the panic still lacing through my ribs.
One. Two. Three.
The Iron Hounds would be scouring the stream by now, joints clicking over the stones, their handlers wielding torches to burn back the dark. They might find white strands of hair on the grate, might taste magic in the air.
But they wouldn’t find me.
They couldn’t.
Because by the time they reached the castle, I would be Sir Lioran again.
I closed my eyes, summoning the magic from deep within me. It rose like a cold current through my veins—first a trickle, then a rush. My fingertips tingled. Water vapor lifted from my sodden skin, spiraling upward in curling tendrils before vanishing as steam.
"Visualization is the foundation of illusion,"Merlin’s voice echoed in my mind."See not what you are, but what you must become."
My body shimmered.
My outline blurred.
Shoulders broadened. Curves dissolved. Violet eyes dimmed to blue as the illusion washed over me. There was no pain. Only relief when the frightened scullery maid was gone.
And in her place stood Sir Lioran.
