Lioran, newly arrived and untested, lacked such pedigree. His origins were murky, lost amidst the shadows of scant introductions. He'd spoken of being sponsored by Dame Yseldra, a name that held as much credibility in the court as a peddler's fable. Truly, Yseldra must have been a noble so humble that she'd faded into obscurity like a long-forgotten footnote.
I sensed weakness in Lioran, yes, and now I wondered if that weakness stemmed from his own insecurity. From knowing how precarious his position was amidst knights who bore their ancestry like a shield? I wondered if he felt the heat of judgment from those of us who had the enviable luxury of undeniable bloodlines.
Perhaps he did, and perhaps that had formed a chip on his shoulder—a chip born of being the underdog in a den of lions. I'd seen it before, how such chips could eat away at a man's spirit, gnawing until they fractured the soul. A chip that could, eventually, shatter what little self-worth held him together like an old window finally giving in to the pressure of unrelenting storm winds.
Then there was also his size—he was easily the smallest, weakest knight among us. Was that to blame for this weakness I sensed within him? Hmm, I did not believe that was it. More likely his humble origins.
The only other knight among us who came from impure bloodlines was Lancelot. He had risen from meager beginnings to the gilded ranks of Arthur's court. Lancelot's plight was raw—more so than Lioran's, I supposed, for Lancelot had once wandered the streets as an urchin, living with his impoverished mother. Perhaps there had been a sister too—I could not recall. What I did know was that Lancelot had been a child endlessly dodging the debris of a harsh world, surviving by doing things those of the upper classes could scarce conceive of. His risemight have mirrored that of a legendary rags-to-riches tale, but the streets left their scars.
Did Lioran carry a similar burden?
I leaned against the wall again, the cool stone grounding me as I processed this revelation. Lioran was hiding something—I was certain of that. But what? That question still remained a mystery.
A memory of the way Lioran's gaze constantly sought out our king returned to me anew. Perhaps he was a lover of men? That would certainly explain the way his eyes lingered on Arthur. But if such were the case, did Arthur return Lioran’s longing?
Arthur had never taken a queen, despite Mordred's constant advice for him to do so. And despite the parade of noble daughters strategically positioned before him by ambitious families—each one more polished and politically advantageous than the last—Arthur appeared to have no interest.
Yes, he bedded women; I’d made it my particular business to know exactly which servants had caught his royal eye. The scullery maid with auburn hair who disappeared into his chambers during the winter solstice celebration. The falconer's daughter who somehow found reason to deliver messages personally to his private study. The widowed seamstress whose mourning period mysteriously coincided with late-night summons to the royal wing.
I might have even slipped a few coins into the eager palms of these seedy little wenches, my questions carefully casual as I extracted every detail they could provide about our enigmatic king. Their whispered confessions—delivered between nervous glances—painted an intimate portrait of Arthur that no council meeting ever could. What pleased him, what angered him, what made him vulnerable in those unguarded moments when thecrown was set aside and the man emerged from beneath the monarch.
But even though Arthur had indulged in the carnal pleasures women offered, that didn’t mean he couldn’t find equal satisfaction with a man. The possibility lingered, a shadow that trailed my thoughts with stubborn persistence. Powerful men often wore their appetites like masks—one for the court, another for the bedchamber. A wife for politics. A male lover in private.
And if Arthur’s preferences extended beyond the perfumed bodies of serving girls, then such information would be useful to know. Not because I cared, but because every desire—every shameful indulgence or well-guarded inclination—was another fault line. Another place in which to apply pressure.
In the game I played, no detail was too small, no intimacy too sacred. To win, one had to know everything. Especially about the man sitting on the throneIshould have inherited.
A curious question indeed. And the answer, should I find it, might alter more than strategy—it could change the entire board.
I touched my ruined eyes. The Labyrinth had been merciless. But it had also reminded me of who I was. That I could see what others could not. I could not help a self-indulgent smile at that.
I stepped away from the wall and let the shadows reclaim me, my steps quiet along the stone corridor. The castle swelled with motion—laughter, boots, the clatter of trays—but I walked in silence, unnoticed, unseen. My thoughts were fixed elsewhere.
On Lioran.
What had drawn him to Camelot? Glory? Ambition? Or something deeper? Something darker?
No knight walked into this place without secrets. But his… his weren’t just personal—it felt as if they were dangerous. Fromthe moment I'd first beheld him, my instincts had screamed that he wasn’t what he seemed. And I trusted those instincts. They’d kept me alive longer than skill or luck ever had. What was more, I could feel that truth in the way the air shifted around him, in the way his magic hummed beneath his skin like something half-buried. There was power there, perhaps even more than he admitted.
And that made him valuable.
Everyone possesses weakness, and Sir Lioran’s might not only unravel himself but his king as well.
The thought thrilled me—sharp and sweet.
In a kingdom built on secrets and lies, truth was the most dangerous weapon of all.
-ARTHUR-
Shadows flickered as I descended into the bowels of Camelot, torches lining the walls providing only a feeble light that barely reached the stone floor. My footsteps, heavy with impatience, echoed ominously.
When I reached the heavy iron door, I pushed it open with force. The chamber beyond greeted me with nothing but the musty embrace of neglect—thick cobwebs draped across forgotten corners and layers of dust that spoke of secrets buried in time. The air hung stagnant and cold, carrying the metallic tang of old stone and dampness that seeped from the very bones of Camelot's foundation.
"Fox," I called, my voice cutting through the oppressive silence.
From the deepest shadows at the chamber's far end, the man materialized as if summoned from the void—a wraith as stealthy and silent as any nightmare. The darkness seemed to part around him, bending to his will as naturally as subjects bow before their king. As always, his form remained largely concealed beneath layers of dark cloth and strategic positioning, leaving only his eyes visible—those razor-sharp orbs that gleamed with the cunning of a predator who had never known defeat.
"The woman," I demanded without preamble, my boots striking the stone floor in measured strides as I began to pace the confines of our clandestine meeting ground. The rhythm of my movement betrayed the restless energy that had driven me from the comfort of my chambers to this forgotten corner of my domain. "What news do you bring me?"
