As the night ebbed away, I leaned beside Peep, gazing out at the night sky, a tapestry stitched with stars. If Peep knew anything of such dreams—or the tangled web of decisions that led to futures unwanted—he gave no indication. Given his tenure at my window, perhaps that was answer enough.
I smiled softly, my resolve unwavering even as the shadows lengthened and closed around me once more. Dreams might beckon, and fate with them, but I controlled my own journey. I’dhold the line against the siren song of the lake and its mythical blade, whatever price that choice required.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
-KAY-
Iwaited until the bailey had mostly emptied—knights drifting off to tend wounds earned in earnest or to scrub the sweat and grime from their bruised and battered bodies.
The clang of steel on steel had faded to sporadic echoes, replaced by the shuffle of weary feet on stone and the occasional groan of a man discovering exactly how many places his opponent had found to leave marks.
The bailey, which had been alive with the chaos of combat just moments before, now stretched nearly empty before me. A few squires lingered near the weapon racks, hastily cleaning and organizing the practice swords with the dutiful efficiency of boys who knew better than to leave such tasks undone. Their voices carried in hushed whispers—comparing bruises, no doubt, or rehashing the finer points of their betters' techniques.
Percival had limped away, nursing some simpering wound or other. Truly, it was a miracle the man hadn't drowned in his own tears by now. And Lancelot—always the paragon—had bowed his head and departed with that insufferable humility Arthur so admired.
The sun was low in the sky, soon to set, and shadows stretched long across the packed earth, bleeding into the dust like ink.
Only Lioran remained.
He moved through sword forms with a stubborn precision that bordered on desperation, his blade cutting clean arcs through the air. Again and again, the same sequence. Repetition like penance. He was too focused. Too disciplined. A man that eager to perfect something wasn't training—he was hiding.
Which made this all the easier.
No audience. No interruptions. Just me... and him.
Exactly how I wanted it.
I stepped forward, slowly enough not to alarm, but purposefully enough to assert dominance.
“Adjust your stance, Lioran,” I called, tone measured, almost casual. “You’re leaning too far forward. It’ll cost you in close quarters.”
He didn't bother to look at me. “My weight shifts fine.”
"Care for a real opponent, or do you prefer sparring with the air?" I called, unsheathing my blade. "Forms are worthless without practical application."
Lioran hesitated before nodding. "I would welcome the practice, Sir Kay."
But then he hesitated once more. A flicker, barely a pause in his rhythm—but I saw it. Felt it.
Yes. There it was. He was definitely hiding something, and I was now determined to find out what.
As to why I'd come—the truth was: I didn’t want a match. I wanted awound.Just a scratch—something deep enough to draw blood, but shallow enough not to raise alarm. Because blood doesn't lie. Blood reveals. And his blood would reveal to me whatever I wanted to know.
“Unless,” I added, voice laced with provocation, “you’re too tired. I understand. It’s been a difficult week forsomeof us.”
I smiled. Let it look like cruelty. Better that than curiosity. Better that than the hunger to know the truth.
He turned to face me fully, lowering his blade just slightly. Not in surrender—more like someone bracing for a blow they’d already seen coming.
Good. Let him see it.
Because today, one way or another, I was going to taste the truth.
"As I said," he started, his tone one of irritation. "I welcome the practice."
"Very good." My smile was clipped.
We circled one another, our boots scuffing against the packed earth as we sought position and advantage. The dying sun caught the edges of our blades at each turn, transforming ordinary steel into ribbons of molten fire that danced between us.
