My gaze drifted to the far end of the hall where Kay sat, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed squarely on me. His eyes were no longer bleeding, but they remained bloodshot, rimmed in a fatigue that looked more spiritual than physical. His stare made my stomach clench. It wasn’t the blind hatred he often wore—it wasinterest.
Measured, calculating interest.
And that was far worse.
“Sir Kay seems... particularly affected,” I offered, trying to sound bored.
Percival followed my gaze. “Kay’s gift is both a blade and a burden. He sees weakness in all things—including himself. I assume the Labyrinth would have forced him to look inward. And Kay has never been fond of mirrors.”
I bit back a grim smile. Neither was I.
And now, across the hall, Arthur entered.
A rush of heat bloomed in my chest, dangerous and unbidden. I crushed it instantly, forcing the feeling down, whereit couldn't betray me. Whatever had happened between us by the lake had been a mistake. An indulgence. One I could not afford to repeat. And it would never happen again because Arthur would never meet Guinevere again. I would make dead sure of it.
Arthur was flanked by Lancelot and Mordred, the trinity of power that governed Camelot’s walls with blade, magic, and will. Lancelot stood sentinel at the king’s right, his black armor drinking in the torchlight, his hand never straying far from his sword. Mordred, ever the watchful serpent, moved with the slow grace of suspicion made flesh, his mismatched eyes scanning the crowd.
But Arthur...
Arthur moved like he didn’t have to care, like he was born into the air of command. His crown sat like a weight on his head, gold catching firelight with each slow step he took. His face was the picture of listless detachment—a king unmoved, unimpressed, untouched. But I'd seen behind that expression once. I'd seen the fire banked beneath, and I couldn't seem to get that visual out of my head.
As his gaze swept the room, I readied myself. When his eyes found me, I would be calm. Steady. Lioran. Not Guinevere by the lake.
I took a slow breath as the moment arrived. Our eyes met.
For one second too long, his gaze held mine. I didn’t know what he saw—but I felt it. I forced my pulse to steady and my eyes to remain cool. And then his gaze moved on.
Beside me, Percival spoke, almost as if sensing the storm beneath my stillness.
“The next trial approaches. The Duel, if I'm correct.”
I looked up at him then. "Were you a member of Arthur's elite before the ban on magic?"
"You mean was I an original member of the Round Table?" I nodded as Percival shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The onlyknights who were present then were Lancelot, Kay, Agravaine, and Galahad." He cleared his throat. "Well, and Bors." Then he made a motion of crossing his chest.
My heart immediately began pounding as the memory of what had happened to Sir Bors in The Labyrinth Trial came back to me horrifically.
"Was the Round Table so small?" I asked, wondering what Corvin was doing at that exact moment. Of course, I hadn't expected Percival to mention Corvin since the latter hadn't returned to the Shadow Trials. But it was nice to think about him, all the same.
Percival shook his head once more. "There were others, but some did not return this time around. Those who did I mentioned by name."
Thoughts of Corvin caused a pain to well up within me, something that felt like homesickness, which didn't really make much sense because I didn't consider Annwyn my home. Strangely, though, I didn't consider Logres my home either. I swallowed hard and decided to change the topic. “What can you tell me about The Hunt Trial?”
Percival glanced down into his wine. “Not much, I'm afraid. Just whispers among the knights. Rumors."
"And what are those rumors?"
But before Percival could answer, he was interrupted by the arrival of a honey-blonde woman gliding through the crowd with the grace of someone who’d learned early in life that attention was power. She held a steaming mug in her hands.
Her crimson silk gown clung to every curve before falling to the floor like spilled wine, the bodice cut low enough to make her ruby pendant appear to float just above the swell of her large, round breasts.
There was something predatory in her smile as her kohl-lined gaze swept over me without a flicker of subtlety. I'd seenher once before—at the celebration following the Summoning Trial—perched firmly in Lancelot’s lap like a content cat. His hands had been up her gown.
"I believe I’ll leave you to your revelry, Sir Lioran," Percival said, offering a nod and a half-smile that carried more insight than politeness.
He didn’t linger, and I wished he had.
I inclined my head in return just before my newest visitor took the space beside me. More striking than her appearance was her bearing—poised but unapologetic, shoulders squared and chin tilted just high enough to command attention without inviting reprimand. She held herself like someone who belonged in any room she entered, regardless of what others thought.
