I still felt bare, exposed, terrified, angry, and… something else that I didn't want to name. Something that made my pulse quicken and my breath catch whenever those piercing blue eyes found mine. Something that I was too ashamed to even put into words, let alone acknowledge in the privacy of my own thoughts. Because Arthur was my mortal enemy—the tyrant who had torn my world apart. He was the reason my parents were dead, the reason I'd spent three years learning to kill with blade and magic alike. And yet, when he'd touched me at the lake, when his voice had dropped to that rough whisper against my ear, my treacherous body had come alive in ways I'd never experienced.
It was a truth I was having a difficult time accepting, a dangerous truth that threatened to unravel everything I thought I knew about myself and about the mission that had brought me to this cursed place. It was everything I could do to beat the memories away, to suffocate the remembrance of his finger inside me, the look in his eyes, the words he'd said. All of it still burned hot beneath my ribs.
Even wrapped in layers of magic now, I still felt naked beneath those piercing eyes, as though they might strip away my disguise and lay the truth bare: the woman, the enemy, hidden beneath the knight.
And then there was Excalibur.
I still didn't know how it was possible, but I'd pulled the sword from the stone. That truth still hovered at the edges of my mind, too vast to grasp, too dangerous to say aloud.
I hadn’t told Merlin. I couldn’t. Because I was fairly certain Merlin would celebrate it. He would want to put me on Arthur's throne, and he'd use me as the rallying cry to destroy Logres.
But I wanted no crown. No throne. No war.
Such thoughts had consumed me all night. I hadn’t slept, only lay in the dark, turning over every terrible possibility. Would the sword call to me again? Would the Lady of the Lake reveal what I’d done? Could she see through this illusion I now wore?
Of one thing I was certain—if the blade found its way back into my hands, my life would end before the sun rose.
The only fragile thread of comfort came from the fact that Arthur had seenGuinevere, the white-haired woman, not Sir Lioran. He didn’t know—couldn’t know—that we were one and the same. In his mind, the sorceress who’d pulled his sacred blade and the knight who now stood among his candidates were two separate people. As long as my illusion held and my performance stayed flawless, I was safe.
Or so I told myself.
It was that fragile reassurance—Arthur’s ignorance of who I truly was—that carried me through the sleepless night and into the punishing light of morning. But even it couldn’t silence the voice whispering what I already knew: I was playing a far more dangerous game than before.
Focus on the challenge, Guin,I told myself, straightening my spine. My expression stayed solemn, befitting a knight preparing to face a harrowing trial.
Mordred turned toward me, the silver chalice in his hands. “Sir Lioran,” he said, his voice ringing out across the sacred circle. “Are you prepared to face what lies within the Labyrinth?”
“I am." My voice was steady, even as dread churned in my gut.
As I understood from Mordred's explanation, the elixir would open the mind, forcing each knight to confront their darkest fears. And mine? They weren’t mere shadows of past battles or lost comrades. My fears were laced with deception, buried magic, and treason. If the truth surfaced, I wouldn’t leave this circle alive.
But that truth was protected by layers of carefully woven enchantments, like steel bands around my heart. The water magic that flowed through my veins had learned to lie as smoothly as it moved, creating false currents beneath my skin that would mislead even the most probing spells. Merlin had taught me well in those months of training, showing me how to bury my real thoughts so deep that even I sometimes forgot where I'd hidden them. My magical signature was masked, my true nature concealed behind walls of misdirection that had fooled Arthur's court for days.
The chalice was heavier than it looked, warm in my hand. The contents swirled like mist caught in liquid, neither fully vapor nor water, but something in between. I lifted it to my lips.
The taste struck hard—bitter herbs, iron-rich roots, and unmistakably... the tang of blood. I swallowed without flinching, though the warmth scorched a path down my throat. My magic rose in protest, resisting the intrusion, but soon it calmed. My shield held.
Then the world fractured. The stone circle warped, stretching and collapsing like a heartbeat. Faces—Arthur, Mordred, Lancelot—melted into color and shadow, dissolving into smoke.
Whose blood was that?That was my last coherent thought before the Labyrinth claimed me.
I stood in a narrow corridor. The stone walls breathed, expanding and contracting. The ground sloshed with ankle-deep water that rippled beneath each step I took, distorting my reflection.
I pushed forward, breath tight in my chest.
Then the corridor opened.
A vast chamber yawned before me, dimly lit by firelight and shadow. In its center, kneeling on bare stone, were the last people I ever wanted to see here.
My father. My mother.
My father was shackled, weathered hands—hands that had once shown me how to milk a goat, how to thread a bowstring—now bound in iron that hissed and smoked against his skin. His head lifted slowly. His eyes met mine.
“You left us to die, Guinevere,” he said, his voice raw with betrayal. The sound of my name struck like a blade. “We gave up everything for you.”
Beside him, my mother’s face contorted in anguish. “We knew what you were,” she said through tears. “And we loved you anyway.”
Knight's Guard soldiers ringed them like vultures, their visored helmets reflecting the fire now roaring in the center of the room. One stepped forward and pressed a brand—white-hot—into my father’s back.
