The questions were enough to give me another headache, so I put them out of my mind for the time being. As far as I knew, Elenora was nothing more than a flirtatious courtesan who was keeping Lancelot's bed warm each night.
The feast stretched endlessly into the night, the great hall growing increasingly boisterous with each passing houras servants continuously refilled goblets with Camelot's finest wines. Knights who had been stiff and formal at the meal's beginning now roared with laughter, pounding tables and slinging arms around one another's shoulders. I noticed how the atmosphere shifted subtly as the noble ladies of the court—with meaningful glances and delicate yawns behind jeweled fingers—began their orchestrated retreat to their bedchambers.
I knew what would follow. Once the last gown disappeared through the arched doorway, the real celebration would erupt—a bacchanal where even the most dignified knights would shed their carefully maintained personas. By morning, all manner of obscenities and indiscretions would be conveniently blamed on the ale, the collective memory of the court selectively forgetting what couldn't be acknowledged in daylight. It was becoming a pattern as familiar as the weight of my sword, this dance of propriety giving way to debauchery and back again.
Though I wanted nothing more than to retire to my chamber, I remained where I was, letting my gaze skim the room with new purpose. Camelot, I was learning, was no monolith of tyranny. It was a tangled knot of desires and loyalties, a palace full of masks—and not all of them were Arthur’s.
Merlin had told me this kingdom was ruled by steel and fear.
But now I wondered: Was that the whole truth?
Near the high table, an unusual interaction caught my attention, pulling my thoughts away from the questions swirling through my mind.
A raven-haired noblewoman had entered the hall, her every movement laced with the polished grace that marked her as highborn. Her gown—midnight blue silk embroidered with silver thread that shimmered beneath the torchlight—hugged her figure in a way that was elegant but still revealing. It was the kind of garment only wealth and lineage could command.Courtiers subtly inclined their heads as she passed, a silent ripple of recognition that confirmed her rank.
Why she hadn't retired to her bedchamber as the other highborn ladies had, I didn't know.
I watched as she approached Arthur, where he sat at his table with quiet deliberation, chin high, her bearing proud. She offered what appeared to be congratulations of some sort, her words lost to the cacophony of the surroundings, but her body language spoke volumes: the slight tilt of her head, the pause of her hand on the tabletop—so close to Arthur's it seemed to ache for contact. It hinted at familiarity. Intimacy.
An unwelcome, visceral pang flared in my chest. Jealousy—sharp, hot, and wholly irrational—clawed its way to the surface before I could bury it in absolute anger. I had no claim on Arthur. I had no right to feel possessive. And yet, watching her linger by his side, I felt fire burn through me like a fever.
What was wrong with me?
Arthur’s response was cool, formal—his usual mask. A royal nod. A glance devoid of emotion. But I’d spent enough time studying him to recognize the shift. His eyes, those piercing blue sentinels, hardened ever so slightly. I'd seen him wear that look many times before—when someone reached too far toward the man behind the crown.
The woman withdrew with poise, her expression unshaken, her smile measured—but I noticed the subtle tension in her shoulders, the slight falter in her step as she turned away. Whatever passed between them had been brief, but something lingered.
"That's Lady Isolde of Corbenic," came a voice at my side. I turned to find Percival had returned to stand beside me.
“Lady Isolde?” I echoed, still watching the retreating noblewoman.
He nodded. "Arthur’s former betrothed." At his words, I felt my stomach drop down to my toes.
"I hadn’t heard the king was ever betrothed."
"Long ago. Before duty carved him into something cold."
I didn’t like how my chest still ached with this newfound knowledge, and I hated even more that I couldn’t force the feelings away.
"Their betrothal is rarely spoken of," Percival continued. "Her father’s lands bordered Annwyn. When relations with Merlin soured, Arthur needed stronger alliances elsewhere. The match was dissolved."
"But the king never married?"
Percival cocked his head to one side, pondering. "Yes, true he never did. No one knows why." He paused. "Some say he loved Isolde. Before the crown reshaped him."
This was not the Arthur Merlin had described to me. Had Arthur traded love for diplomacy then? Yes, I still assumed him to be a tyrant, but perhaps not a purely heartless one?
“And what doyoubelieve?” I asked Percival.
He was quiet for a long moment, watching Arthur as the king spoke to Lancelot. "I believe the king is loyal—to his duty. Beyond anything else. I don’t know if he’s capable of loving anything more than his crown."
I said nothing, though my silence throbbed with thoughts I couldn’t name.
The hall, meanwhile, grew rowdier. My exhaustion from The Labyrinth pressed heavily against my shoulders, the weariness of holding a disguise stitched tightly around skin and bone. I needed to shirk Sir Lioran soon—I could feel as much in the exhaustion of my body. But I couldn't leave yet—not without drawing attention to myself, which I very much did not want to do.
The feast stretched long into the night before finally beginning to unravel. The ale and mead flowed more slowly, laughter turned hoarse, and even the most boisterous knights began to slump in their chairs. I took my chance to slip away.
In the corridor that led toward the knights' quarters, torchlight flickered unevenly across the ancient stones. I welcomed the solitude, the hush after the storm. I needed space to think—about Elenora and her note, about the Labyrinth, about Arthur, about all the threads spinning tighter around me.
