CHAPTER FIVE #2
I pressed both palms flat against the worn wooden table, steadying myself as I touched the water's surface with trembling fingertips.
The liquid responded instantly to my magic, rippling outward in perfect concentric circles.
Drawing on the ancient words Merlin had drilled into me during countless training sessions, I whispered the incantation that would pierce the veil between our worlds:
"Scáthán uisce, droichead idir domhain, taispeáin dom mo mháistir."
The old words vibrated through the stale air of the tavern room, each syllable heavy with power and purpose.
The water began to shimmer, its surface tension crackling with magical energy that made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
The single candle's flame dimmed to barely an ember, as if the spell was drawing light itself into the basin.
Shadows deepened in the corners of the room, and for a moment, I felt the familiar sensation of existing between two places at once.
Then, as clearly as if I were peering through a window, Merlin's study emerged in the water's reflection—that cluttered sanctuary where I'd spent countless hours learning to harness the magic that flowed through my veins.
Towering bookshelves lined the walls, their shelves sagging under the weight of ancient tomes and scrolls.
Even the air seemed to shimmer with residual magic from his countless experiments.
His massive desk dominated the center of the room, covered in star charts, alchemical instruments, and the remnants of whatever arcane work had occupied his attention.
His face soon followed in the rippling surface, those storm-gray eyes finding mine across the distance.
"I’ve crossed the stones safely," I whispered. "I’ll reach Camelot by tomorrow morning."
"Be cautious, child," he said, his voice distorted but strong. "The walls of Camelot have ears. Trust no one—not servants, not knights, and certainly not the king."
-GUIN-
I woke at dawn and reassembled my disguise by again pulling the water from the air.
Becoming Sir Lioran now felt instinctive—less a disguise, more a second skin.
I examined my reflection in the basin: I appeared as a feminine man, certainly, but a man all the same.
Short dark blond hair, a soft jawline, heavy brows.
My violet eyes were now masked in blue, though my skin still held its pale tone.
I was still twenty-three, but now every inch a man.
My height was the same—three inches over five feet—just now more suited to the body I wore.
While disguise magic wasn't particularly difficult in itself, there were subtle techniques one could employ to make the transformation far more manageable—such as maintaining fundamental aspects like one's natural height and weight.
These physical constants served as anchors, requiring less energy to sustain.
The disguise then simply became like an elaborate cloth covering, artfully concealing the most discernible features that would betray my true identity.
The real skill lay not in complete transformation, but in the delicate art of selective alteration.
Each unchanged element meant less strain on my concentration, less risk of the illusion wavering at a crucial moment.
My bones remained my bones, my frame mostly unchanged—only the surface shifted, like water reshaping itself around familiar stones.
By late morning, I rode through Camelot’s towering gates.
The guards gave my papers a token glance—far more swayed by my armor and horse than by any seal.
The castle swelled in scale with each step Shade took, white stone shimmering in the sun—marred only by the ominous fracture streaking the central tower.
Now, among dozens of candidates in the Great Hall, I wrestled to steady my breath.
The hall was breathtaking—vaulted ceilings lost in shadow above enchanted crystal chandeliers throwing golden light across the room.
Pendragon banners draped from the rafters, crimson dragons shifting with each stir of air, as if alive.
The court nobility packed the gallery—an opulent tide of silk and gemstones against dark oak panels.
Ladies whispered behind jeweled fans, their hair sculpted like crownwork.
Men in velvet doublets preened and posed, reminding me of gawking birds.
Their decadence was obscene—a performative display in a kingdom where farmers scraped for bread.
These privileged few reaped Arthur’s peace while dodging its cost.
I placed myself among the other knights deliberately—neither too bold at the front nor too meek at the rear. I was just one more eager man hunting glory under Arthur’s banner.
But gods, the irony seared. Here I stood—deep in the heart of the kingdom that would hang me without trial if it knew who and what I truly was. The same kingdom that had murdered my parents.
It was a dangerous thought—one that instantly brought ire coursing through me, my hands clenching involuntarily at my sides as I fought to keep my expression neutral before the assembled court.
Focus, Guin, I thought to myself. Rage is a luxury you can’t afford right now. Calm your feelings so you don't threaten your disguise.
As I scanned the hall, my eyes locked—almost instinctively—on the figure seated atop the Dragon Throne.
Arthur Pendragon himself.
The man who had haunted my training for three long years now sat just yards away—no longer a legend, but flesh and blood.
He was far more imposing than Merlin’s bitter descriptions had prepared me for.
Arthur didn’t merely sit on the throne; he commanded the space around it with the quiet gravity of a collapsing star.
Gold cloth shimmered across his large frame, catching the light with his every movement.
His broad shoulders filled the ornate seat, and even while seated, his stature seemed to dwarf the court around him.
Handsome, yes, undeniably so—but with a severe, unyielding beauty forged in battle, not bred in courts.
His face could’ve been sculpted from marble: a hard jaw dusted with a perfectly groomed beard, high cheekbones, and lips drawn into a line that suggested he rarely smiled—and laughed even less.
His once-golden hair had darkened beneath the weight of his crown, streaks of silver coiling at his temples like creeping frost.
But it was his eyes that truly unsettled me—piercing, glacial blue, sharp enough to flay secrets from bone. Even at a distance, I felt the cut of that gaze as it raked over the assembled candidates, each look a dissection. A predator surveying prey.
Dark shadows pooled beneath those eyes, speaking of sleepless nights and burdens that would snap the spine of a lesser man. His grip on the golden scepter was a death clutch—knuckles bloodless, fingers locked around the symbol of his reign as if it might try to escape him.
This was not a king at peace with his power.
This was a man holding an empire together with sheer will—one frayed nerve away from shattering.
Even the crown seemed less a symbol of sovereignty than a visible weight—its pressure reflected in the tension of his posture, the tight control of every micro-expression. Here sat the tyrant who had ordered my parents’ deaths.
And I hated him.
With all of me.
At Arthur’s side stood Sir Lancelot du Lac—Arthur's infamous shadow. The only existing knight of the Round Table—the one man who did not need to prove himself to his king in the Shadow Trials.
Merlin, who had interacted with nearly all of these knights during his tenure serving Arthur prior to the ban on magic, had reviewed with me the details of every aspiring knight.
Parchments filled with inked portraits, combat records, magical abilities, strengths, and weaknesses—they were profiles so precise they read like prophecy. I’d memorized them all.
And yet, no parchment had done Lancelot justice.
Even motionless, he radiated danger. His armor—immaculate black steel inlaid with silver—bore Arthur's crest with a personal emblem of a silver wolf.
Everything about Lancelot embodied the predator whose symbol he bore: the calculated stillness before the strike, the way his dark eyes tracked movement with wolfish focus, the sense that beneath his courtly veneer lurked something wild and barely leashed.
Even his stance suggested coiled power, muscles held in perfect readiness, as if he might spring into lethal motion at the slightest provocation.
There was something distinctly lupine in the way he surveyed the great hall—not with Arthur's imperial assessment of his domain, but with the territorial awareness of an apex predator marking his hunting ground.
His gaze lingered on each knight-candidate with the patient voltage of a hunter evaluating prey, cataloging weaknesses with the precision that had made him a legend.
He was, without exaggeration, the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
A full head taller than most, shoulders like fortress ramparts, his was a warrior’s physique honed through decades of war.
Jet-black hair framed a face that seemed carved by the gods themselves—every angle severe, every line flawless.
There was no softness in him. Just control. And violence, barely restrained.
He carried the unwavering self-assurance of someone unfamiliar with failure.
Merlin's documentation on Lancelot had been extensive.
He ranked Lancelot as the foremost danger to me after Arthur himself.
In observing Lancelot now, I could understand why.
His arcane talent emerged as combat foresight—he could predict his adversary's actions moments before execution, rendering him practically invincible.
But, according to Merlin, behind Lancelot's formidable exterior was a soul consumed by a desperate emptiness that he filled with women, drink, and glory—though he never found satisfaction in any.