His hooded head moved in a slow, deliberate shake, those penetrating eyes never wavering from mine even as disappointment flickered across what little I could see of his features.
"I have scoured every inch of the castle's breadth, my King," he reported, his voice echoing in that bizarre way of his. "Every hidden passageway, every forgotten chamber, every servant's alcove and noble's retreat. I have followed every whisper that might lead to her trail. Yet I can find no trace of her existence—not so much as a disturbed stone or a lingering scent."
He has failed us,the dragon sounded from within my mind.
I was quiet for a moment, rage and frustration simmering within me.
"Never have you failed me." My voice dropped to that icy register that had made hardened knights tremble and seasoned courtiers flee my presence.
"This is not failure, just a temporary setback," he assured me, standing straighter. "Whoever she is, she’s cloaked herself inshadows thicker than I’ve yet unraveled. I must simply increase my efforts and cast the net wider." He cleared his throat. "And I have only searched the castle thus far."
"And?"
"I can tell you, with certainty, that she is not here."
"Then?"
"Then she must be elsewhere."
"And you shall search elsewhere?"
He bowed. "Of course."
Silence enveloped us as I wrestled with my own simmering vexation. Her face continued to haunt me, burned brightly in my memory. How had she vanished so completely? Her absence gnawed at me like a relentless itch beneath armor, the dragon within restless and insatiable. Both of us angry.
"A mere slip of a girl cannot undo me," I said, though a sliver of doubt gnawed at those words.
"Then we shall unearth her," the Fox vowed, clearly attempting to calm the storm swirling within me. "Leave it in my hands, Your Grace. By word or whisper, I will find her."
His conviction stilled the turmoil that was building to a crescendo within me. Satisfied for the moment, I nodded, but the unwavering desire to possess her never left me. It hadn't from the moment I'd set eyes on her. Whatever her true name, her story would soon unravel at my feet.
"Do what you must," I decreed, waving him off. "Report back once you have a lead."
The Fox nodded, slipping back into the shadows like a ghost assuming its place in the night, while I left the room, contemplating the web of intrigue tightening around my kingdom.
The girl's role in this tale might be mysterious, but mine was unequivocally wrought with peril. The burden of a king, though often heavy, was also a testament to devotion—devotionto power, to Camelot, and, perhaps most hauntingly, to the inexplicable pull toward one who might spell my ruin.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
-GUIN-
That evening, as the castle celebrated the survivors of the Labyrinth Trial, I stood apart from the revelry, nursing a growing pain between my eyes.
The great hall of Camelot roared with life. Knights laughed too loudly, reliving their victories in embellished detail while goblets overflowed with ale and platters of roasted meat vanished as quickly as they appeared. Servants moved like shadows, keeping pace with the demands of celebration.
Unlike the others clustered at the long oak tables, I remained near one of the great stone pillars, half-hidden in flickering torchlight. It offered just enough cover to observe without being drawn in. The strain of maintaining my disguise had deepened with each passing hour. After the emotional flaying of the Labyrinth, keeping up my disguise as Sir Lioran felt brittle—too tightly wound around me, like armor that no longer fit. The truth was, I needed to release it—needed to return to myself in the comfort of my own chamber.
Soon.I promised myself.Soon.
I nursed a barely touched cup of mead, performing just enough festivity to blend in while keeping enough distance to avoid deeper scrutiny. The hall's warmth felt oppressive, pressing against my skin and lungs, as though the air resented the illusion I wore.
“Not one for celebrations, Sir Lioran?”
I turned to find Percival beside me. His gentle expression still carried shadows from the trial, though he tried to mask them behind soft civility. His hands—still bearing the ghost of Gareth’s burns—twitch occasionally, the memory of pain refusing to be forgotten.
“I find reflection more valuable than revelry,” I said evenly.
Percival nodded. “The Labyrinth leaves its mark on us all—some wear it openly, others bury it deep. But it changes everyone.”
