But the Labyrinth had shattered that certainty.
Arthur hadn’t appeared as a monster. He'd appeared as a man with hope, with vision, with compassion. Was it possible the vision the Labyrinth had proposed was just a lie? Artifice created by Mordred? But how could that be when everything within the Labyrinth simply echoed whatever was in my own mind?
So was I doubting whether or not Arthur was the tyrant I'd previously believed him to be? Perhaps. I could only then wonder if my newfound doubt was owing to my attraction to the king. Perhaps my mind couldn't stomach the truth—that I was desirous of a tyrant. Thus, it was doing its best to prove Arthur wasn't a tyrant.
I didn't know.
And Merlin?
His shadowed face in the Labyrinth hadn’t comforted me. It had chilled me. What if I was just simply a tool to him, a weapon? Molded, shaped, weaponized for a cause I didn't truly understand?
The Labyrinth hadn’t given me answers. It had only opened the doors to more questions.
-KAY-
I leaned against the cold stone wall outside the knights’ quarters, pressing my palms over my eyes. They still burned like hellfire—the price of seeing too clearly in the Labyrinth. Blood had dried in flaking trails down my cheeks, and every blink felt like dragging sandpaper across raw nerves.
The trial had been unkind—brutally so—stripping away every layer of pretense I’d built around myself over the years.It had forced me to witness the full, festering breadth of my jealousy toward Arthur—my foster brother, my king, my nemesis. Every petty thought, every silent curse, every moment I’d quietly hoped for his failure was laid bare in merciless detail.
My magic—my curse—had turned inward in the trial, as sharp and punishing as it had always been when directed at others. The ability to see weakness in all things had shown me my own, dissected in perfect clarity. Now, hours later, it still scorched behind my eyes like molten lead, burning through the center of my skull, as though looking for a way out.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor—measured, deliberate. I straightened at once, squared my shoulders, and wiped away the last of the dried blood. Vulnerability was a personal matter. I’d never show it to the others, not when my reputation as Arthur’s sharp-tongued shadow depended on my composure.
Lioran.
He moved with maddening precision, every step as if it had been measured out in advance. There was a kind of unnatural poise to him—too smooth, too calm. A knight who spoke like a scholar and moved like a ghost.
He gave me a courteous nod as he passed, that same infuriating deference he always wore like a second cloak.
And then—
My magic surged, sudden and involuntary. Raw as my senses were, I couldn’t stop it.
The world around him shimmered—just for a moment. A flicker, like heat rising from a scorched path. Something around his face, his chest. A veil slipping, however briefly. Something not quite right.
Then it was gone.
The corridor stilled. My breath hitched, though I masked it well.
He kept walking, unbothered.
But my curse had caught a scent.
I blinked, wincing at the pain that lanced through my skull with even that small movement. Was I seeing things?
The Labyrinth had left me flayed open, my magic leaking out uncontrolled, like blood from a wound that refused to clot. Perhaps it was merely exhaustion playing tricks on my senses, my mind conjuring phantoms where none existed.
Yet something about Lioran had always struck me as off. He moved too gracefully, like a dancer disguised as a warrior. He was too measured in his speech, each word selected in such a way that bordered on artificial. The way he held his sword—competent, certainly, but with a grip that suggested it wasn't his first choice of weapon.
The way his eyes lingered too long on Arthur...
I was reminded of a moment only a few hours earlier after the Labyrinth Trial had finished. I'd watched (as best I could through the blood seeping from my eyes) as Lioran left the trial. I kept my distance, observing him engage with Mordred. Their conversation was low, most of the words swallowed by the ambient noise, but I caught fragments here and there—enough to piece together their exchange.
Mordred's posture was relaxed, one hand casually gesturing while Lioran listened intently. Lioran held himself as he always did—with a control that spoke of constant awareness.
Mordred had been questioning Lioran's humble beginnings, a subject I found very interesting.
Most of the knights in Camelot traced their lineage back to noble houses, a tapestry of regal bloodlines weaving through generations. The majority of us had enjoyed the finest education. We sparred with seasoned warriors from the moment we could hold a sword. We wore our lineage like a badge of honor, an entitlement we displayed openly—knights bred for glory.
