I struck first—nothing dramatic or showy. A clean, classic opening thrust that any competent knight worth his spurs would counter in his sleep. The sort of textbook attack they drilled into pages and squires until it became muscle memory. Simple. Direct. Expected.
Lioran parried well enough, his blade meeting mine with a satisfying ring of steel on steel. His form was correct, his stance solid, his technique sound. But there was something in the timing—a fraction too slow, a heartbeat's delay between recognition and response. Not sloppy. Far from it. His movements were precise, controlled, deliberate. Just...learned. And recently so. Practiced in the safety of a training ground rather than forged in the crucible of real battle.
It was the difference between a man who had studied swordplay and one who had lived it. The subtle distinctionbetween technique drilled into muscle and instinct carved into bone by necessity and survival.
He was new to the blade. The truth was in his reflexes.
I let the next few exchanges breathe, giving him room to grow confident, to believe he had the upper hand—to allow him a misstep in judgment.
I gave him an opening. He took it, of course. His parry was sharp, efficient, even impressive. But it was still mimicry. I’d fought long enough to know when a man was wielding instinct and when he was mimicking choreography.
And Lioran? He danced like someone who'd memorized the steps.
We clashed again, blades scraping with a hiss that echoed through the empty yard. This time, I slid my sword just off-axis, appearing to falter—and with a flourish masked as recovery, I let my blade kiss the bare flesh of his hand. Not deep. Not clumsy. Intentional.
Blood welled up immediately.
To the untrained eye, it was nothing more than a bead of crimson against pale skin. But I knew better, as did my magic, which surged to the surface immediately. Lioran's blood shimmered faintly—veined with threads of soft blue light, pulsing with enchantment like a heartbeat. And my magic attacked it—tasted it—returned to me with information. His blood was delicate. Powerful. Carefully woven. Not just a shield or glamour—this was identity work. And it was strong.
"My apologies," I said, grasping his wrist tightly, the gesture one of exaggerated knightly camaraderie. "I didn’t mean to catch you."
He tensed, his frown sharp with suspicion. I brushed my thumb across the wound: subtle, exacting. I didn’t need much—just a trace of blood would do.
"Is it deep?" I asked as I wiped the bead of red onto my tunic.
“It’s nothing." He jerked his hand back with a tight, polite smile. But I saw the flicker of concern behind his eyes. Clearly, he wondered whether this meeting was quite as impromptu as it might have seemed.
"Perhaps you should be more careful," I replied, my tone light as air. "It's unwise to practice without gloves."
"Perhaps."
“Luckily, the wound is quite shallow." I kept my tone light, my posture relaxed, but inside—inside I was vibrating with satisfaction. I had retrieved exactly what I'd come for. And the truth would soon come to light. Whatever lies Lioran had told, I would soon know them—as well as whether or not he was a lover of men—and whether the king returned his affections—information that would be worth its weight in gold.
As I stood there before him, my own magic was suddenly overcome with the knowledge that whatever weakness he possessed—whatever lies he'd told—they were hefty. The magic glinting off him was strong, powerful. And no self-taught hedge witch crafted magic like this. No knight of Logres bore spells this intricate.
Which meant two things.
First, Sir Lioran was hiding something so dangerous it demanded protection layered into the very essence of his being. And second—and more damning—someone with real power had helped him to do it.
I glanced down at my tunic, where the faintest smear of his blood still darkened the fabric. Still warm. Still singing with magic I would later study in quiet. Alone. Where no one could interrupt.
Yes, the answers would come. And when they did, I would be ready.
Sir Lioran wasn’t what he appeared to be; that much was certain.
And now, he was mine.
-GUIN-
I paced my chamber, teeth clenched, fury and self-reproach tangled like briars in my chest. I should never have trusted him—never believed that he was in want of a sparring partner! What had I been thinking, lowering my guard, even for a moment? Kay, with his sharp eyes and sharper tongue, had played his hand well. Too well.
The wound on my hand was nothing—a mere scratch—but its implications were far from innocuous. Kay had planned all of it. I was certain. And what had I done? Naively believed in the simplicity of exchanging blows for practice. I'd stupidly believed him.
I huffed, irritation burning through me.
There was no time to berate myself further. This situation was bigger than I was, and that meant I needed to inform Merlin about what had happened.
I hurried to the water basin set on top of my table in the corner of the chamber, its surface rippling faintly as if it sensed my urgency. I immediately reached out, fingers brushing the cool liquid.
