CHAPTER SIX
-GUIN-
The Summoning Trial
Sir Kay of Caer Cadarn stepped forward.
Arthur’s foster brother.
Of course, most of these knights were already known to Arthur—they had taken residence here in Camelot's sprawling halls long before he'd outlawed magic, back when sorcerers openly walked the marble corridors and enchantments flickered in every shadow.
They had served at his table, fought at his side, and sworn their oaths beneath these very banners that now hung silent and still.
As to why they were performing for him now—displaying their abilities like trained performers in some elaborate theater?
All of us were meant to appear as equals in this grand charade, each knight demonstrating his worth as if we stood on level ground before our king.
With the exception of Sir Lancelot, of course, who had remained steadfastly at Arthur's side through thick and thin.
Lancelot had earned his place through blood and unwavering loyalty, while the rest of us were here to prove we deserved ours.
But back to Sir Kay—the man with the sharpest tongue in Camelot—and the fewest friends to show for it. He had been passed over for glory when Arthur took the throne, and rather than play the court’s game, Kay had withdrawn—burying himself in military doctrine like a man digging his own grave.
His magic? The ability to see weaknesses in anything—or anyone.
Merlin had been crystal clear: Avoid him at all costs.
Up close, Kay looked worn past his thirty-eight years. The once-fiery red of his hair had faded to gray in some spots and to bald in others. His thin lips curled in a near-permanent sneer, as if the world itself left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He offered no greeting, no ceremony, and none of the houses cheered him as they had with the others who hailed from their locations. Instead, the court was entirely silent.
So was Kay. He just gave a stare—fixed, cutting—to Arthur as he raised a hand and pointed toward one of the stone columns supporting the vaulted ceiling.
“There.”
A faint crack echoed through the hall as a hairline fracture suddenly splintered across the stone. Guards lurched forward. Courtiers gasped.
Kay lifted his other hand, casual, almost bored.
“The flaw was already there. I simply revealed it.” His voice scraped like steel on marble.
“Every structure. Every person. Every plan. They all have inherent flaws. My magic finds those flaws and exposes them, such as the crack in the column where, if left to fester, will eventually bring down this entire room.”
Then his gaze swept across the candidates surrounding him—clinical, dissecting.
And when his eyes found me, they stopped.
They lingered.
He was a hunter scenting prey. A blade hovering over exposed flesh.
I held his gaze, expression impassive. But inside, alarm tightened like a vice. Of everyone in this hall, Sir Kay was the one most likely to tear my illusion apart.
School your concern, I told myself, maintaining supreme control over my emotions, lest they affect my disguise.
Thankfully, Kay moved on.
The next knight approached with a small wooden box cradled in his arms.
Sir Percival Pellinore. He hailed from the West, but even they seemed uninterested in him—his applause was minor, at best.
His stride was loose and easy, as if oblivious to the formality of the moment. But I recognized him instantly—he’d been the focus of an entire evening’s study under Merlin’s instruction.
Not just for his magic, but for the strange machinery of his mind.
The portrait had captured his outward appearance: unruly straw-colored curls, bright blue eyes filled with unguarded wonder, an open face that made him look younger than his thirty years. Not classically handsome—but disarmingly pleasant.
What no ink or parchment could capture, however, was his energy—like standing near a flame in the cold. There was something decidedly warm about him. Kind.
“Your Majesty,” Percival said, bowing with a kind of cheerful clumsiness. “I’ve brought a wounded subject for demonstration of my abilities.”
He opened the box to reveal a peregrine falcon—its wing twisted, hanging at an unnatural angle. The bird squawked, eyes wide with pain.
“I spoke with your falconer this morning," Percival continued. "The falcon broke its wing during training.” He stroked the bird with gentle fingers, his voice low and soothing. “There now. We’ll fix you up.”
He placed both palms over the mangled wing and closed his eyes.
A soft green glow bloomed around his hands—light without heat. It spread over the falcon like mist. At the same moment, Percival’s face twisted in obvious pain, his shoulders hunched, breath hitching. Sweat dotted his brow.
Clearly, he was taking the bird's pain into himself.
His gift was one of healing, though not through command of life—but through shared suffering.
When Percival lifted his hands, the falcon’s wing sat perfectly aligned—feathers sleek, unmarred, as if the break had never happened. The bird gave an experimental flap, then let out a sharp, triumphant cry.
But Percival winced as he flexed his own arm. His movements were stiff, pained. The cost was written on his face.
Mordred turned to face the noble houses behind him. “Sir Percival doesn’t simply heal; he takes the suffering into himself.”
The court finally applauded, but meekly. As I watched Percival, I felt something stir in me. Not awe. Not pity. Respect. Genuine and unfiltered. Selflessness like that was rare currency in a court drowning in ambition.
More knights followed, each displaying their gifts.
One forged molten metal with his bare hands, shaping it like clay.
Another spoke to animals—a dog, a bird, and, strangely enough, a lizard—and they answered his silent call, doing whatever it was he asked them to do.
A third wove voices from thin air, mimicking anyone's voice with unsettling accuracy.
Through it all, I watched Arthur.
His attention sharpened only when magic revealed tactical value.
Anything with battlefield potential earned a nod or the faint twitch of a smile.
But when a young mage created living sculptures of flowering vines that danced through the air and filled the hall with blossoms, the king barely concealed his boredom.
Behind the stillness of his expression, something colder churned—something calculating.
My chest tightened. Now it was my turn.
Everything Merlin and I had planned came down to this moment. We’d rehearsed for weeks—how to be just impressive enough to advance through the trial, but never so extraordinary as to draw scrutiny.
Stand out among candidates. Blend in among threats. A performance of perfect balance. Memorable as a knight. Forgettable as a person. Exactly what a spy needs to be.
The knight before me—a burly man-at-arms from the eastern provinces—fumbled his demonstration, warping his own gauntlet in a clumsy attempt at transmutation. Arthur dismissed him with a curt flick of the hand.
And then I stepped forward.
Sir Lioran. A knight from the Northern Borderlands. Quiet. Unfamiliar. Small.
The great hall seemed to expand around me, swallowing me whole as dozens of eyes turned to appraise the newcomer. I felt their curiosity sharpen. Courtiers leaned forward, whispering behind jeweled fans. Doubt crossed almost every one of their faces.
I was undeniably the smallest candidate in the room.
Not only that, but my magic—fluid, adaptive, intuitive—had always carried a distinctly feminine quality. Most male water mages leaned toward ice or steam, embracing forms that were forceful, explosive, aggressive.
Mine was different. Subtle. Controlled. Beautiful.
But Lioran couldn’t be beautiful.
“Sir Lioran,” Mordred announced, his voice echoing through the stone chamber, “you hail from the Northern Provinces." I nodded. He continued, "Demonstrate your magical affinity.”
I swallowed, grounding myself. Center. Focus. I reached—not for grandeur, but for presence. Every droplet of moisture in the room answered my call, as it always had: water in the air, the stone, the bodies of the watching crowd. The water welcomed me.
I drew it in slowly.
A shimmer of condensation formed across the flagstones at my feet. Then droplets rose, gathering midair, coalescing into a single, perfect sphere of water at eye level.
I shaped it—carefully—using movements that mimicked masculine control: sharp, angular gestures, not my natural, flowing style.
The sphere twisted and stretched.
A miniature replica of Camelot took shape in the air—each tower rendered in crystalline clarity, every battlement precise.
Murmurs swept the hall. I let a thin crack form down the central tower, mirroring the real fracture.
Gasps followed. With a final snap of my hand, I sealed that gap, restoring Camelot in miniature until it was whole. Unbroken.
Arthur’s eyes narrowed.
Too much? The symbolism might have been seen as presumptuous—healing Camelot’s wound before the court when the king had been unable?
But then he nodded, just once. Barely a shift of his head.
He wasn't impressed by my offer, just as I knew he wouldn't be. Just as I'd planned.
“That will do,” Mordred said. “You may join those who have passed the first trial.”
As I moved to stand among the successful candidates, I felt the weight of another gaze—different from Arthur’s.
Lancelot.
His dark eyes tracked my every step. One hand rested casually on his sword hilt, but the tension behind his expression was unmistakable. Unlike Arthur’s cold calculation, Lancelot’s scrutiny was instinctive.
Predatory.
He wasn’t just studying me. He was dissecting me—the way I moved, the fact that I was so much smaller than the other contestants, my choice in magical feat. And from his expression, he didn't like what he saw.
I kept my posture loose, shoulders relaxed—just another unbothered knight among dozens.