They’d been carried away moments earlier, their bodies surrendered to heart failure brought on by magical strain. I watched as the court physician pressed trembling fingers to still-warm necks, searching for pulses that would never return. Thattroubled me more than I could say, but I swallowed the upset and forced my focus back to the living.
The remaining knights had technically awakened, but their minds were shattered. Some wept uncontrollably, curled into themselves like wounded children. Others babbled incoherently, clawing at their own skin as though trying to rid themselves of something unseen. Guards were already moving among them, helping—or dragging—them away.
The worst, though, was Sir Bors.
A mountain of a man, Sir Bors had been one of the original Knights of the Round Table. Even though his earth magic had impressed everyone during the Summoning, he now thrashed violently. His back arched at a sickening angle, his mouth locked in a scream of pure terror as his hands clawed at invisible foes.
“Get him out of his trance!” Arthur barked, rising sharply from his throne.
Mordred surged forward, placing a circular talisman on Bors's forehead. Then Mordred raised his arms, fingers already weaving the signs of an extraction spell. The runes on the talisman ignited in brilliant blue, flaring as he chanted—seeking to sever Bors’s mind from the Labyrinth.
But it was too late.
Blue fire erupted across Bors’s body—not natural flame, but something older, crueler. Cobalt tongues of fire danced along his skin, burning not with heat but with a terrifying intelligence, as if the flame itself meant to erase him. The light shimmered as it devoured him.
Mordred staggered back, shielding his face with one arm. Even from where I stood, the fire reached me—not with searing heat but with a bone-deep cold that crawled along my spine. I wanted to turn away, to shut my eyes, but I couldn't. I was transfixed as Sir Bors’s body blackened, then collapsed inward on itself. Within seconds, the screams stopped.
Only a heap of ash remained.
The wind stirred, lifting those gray remnants into the air like snowflakes, scattering them across the circle—no trace left of the man who had stood so tall just hours before.
Silence fell.
Arthur stepped forward, haloed by the sun behind him. His silhouette cut a powerful figure—broad-shouldered, unyielding, carved from light and shadow—and I couldn't help but wonder: Was there more to the king than I had assumed? Had his hand been forced where magic was concerned? I didn't know, but I intended to find out.
He looked out over the survivors—those of us who had made it through the trial intact, or at least still standing—with a gaze equal parts pride and gravity.
“The Labyrinth reveals what lies beneath the surface of your minds,” he said, his voice clear and deliberate. “Some men are consumed by fear, anger, greed, shame—the list goes on. Others rise above their weaknesses. Remember what you faced today—for a knight of Camelot must first confront his darkness before he can truly serve the light.”
Mordred joined him. “Whatever you witnessed within the Labyrinth was not illusion, but truths you harbor deep within you. Many truths with which you struggle. The dangers within you are not fantasy—they are the parts of your psyche most likely to destroy you.”
The images I’d seen—of Arthur, of Merlin—lingered. Neither man had appeared wholly righteous or wicked. They had been contradictions: builder and destroyer, tyrant and protector, visionary and manipulator.
And the worst part?
I hadn’t known which one to believe.
As much as I hated questioning Merlin’s intentions, something inside me squirmed at the idea that I might havejudged Arthur too harshly. The man who had spoken to me within the Labyrinth, the boy king—that was not the monster I’d always believed him to be. That wasn’t the man who had persecuted those with magic… or was it?
My mission demanded certainty. But the Labyrinth had only given me questions.
What if both Arthur and Merlin were not as black and white as I'd been led to believe? What if I shouldn't trust either one of them?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
-GUIN-
As I turned back toward the castle, Mordred fell into step beside me.
He said nothing.
His presence was like a shadow—cool, measured, inescapable. His robes whispered against the grass with every step he took, the sound soft but somehow more intrusive than the clatter of the knights’ armor ahead.
I didn’t look at him, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on me—calculating, curious. Mordred’s attention felt like invisible fingers brushing the edges of my disguise—testing, questioning.
“You have done well in the trials thus far, Sir Lioran,” he said, his voice pitched low, meant for me alone.
I bowed my head slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”
