CHAPTER SEVEN
-GUIN-
After the Summoning Trial, we were led to the castle’s eastern wing, where bedchambers had been prepared for us—a place for a temporary rest before the feast this evening.
I watched the others drift through the vaulted stone corridors, their armor clinking, voices echoing.
Already, they moved like droplets across a leaf—clustering by affinity, pooling into early alliances.
Knights with complementary magic or those from the same territories found one another quickly, their laughter too sharp, too deliberate to be genuine.
I stayed apart, and they allowed me as much since I was unknown to everyone.
“Water magic,” said a soft voice at my side, “beautiful to witness. But I imagine… terrible in battle?”
I turned.
Sir Percival had matched my stride, that boyish face untouched by courtly cynicism.
“That depends on one’s creativity.” I chided my bad luck as I'd thought myself alone.
His smile reached his eyes, the corners crinkling in quiet amusement.
“Oh, I wasn’t criticizing. Most knights are terribly unimaginative about magic. Stab this. Burn that.” He wiggled his fingers with mock menace. “But water… water thinks. Flows around what it can’t break. That’s clever.”
“You understand the elements well for a healer.”
He shrugged. “Healing is understanding."
Then, as though in demonstration, he flexed the arm that had taken the falcon’s pain. No show, no performance. Just quiet honesty.
“Your demonstration,” he added, “was different from the others.”
“Oh?” I asked, masking the tension in my voice.
“The others showed what their magic could destroy. You showed what yours could create.”
“Creation and destruction: two sides of the same coin.”
"I imagine Sir Tristan would agree with you."
At that, I remembered Sir Tristan's macabre display and shivered at the memory. The man had stepped into the summoning circle like a man approaching a lover's bed—graceful, unhurried, entirely confident. The air around him had chilled, shadows lengthening despite the noon sun overhead.
He'd spoken no words as someone wheeled in a wagon upon which was something covered with a large sheet of muslin.
When Tristan pulled the sheet back, everyone recoiled at the sight of a corpse.
A soldier, judging by the rusted chainmail clinging to its desiccated flesh.
The man had been dead for years, evidenced by his jaw, which hung loose, and his eye sockets were empty.
The dirt falling from the corpse made me wonder where Tristan had unearthed the grotesque thing.
Tristan said nothing but simply positioned his hands above the grotesque remains, palms facing downward as if warming himself by some invisible fire.
The air around him grew heavy with a dark presence that made my skin crawl.
Immediately, faint pinpricks of ghostly light—cold and blue—began to flicker and dance within the corpse's empty eye sockets.
The illumination pulsed, growing brighter until those hollow cavities blazed with spectral fire.
The crowd pressed closer despite their revulsion, drawn by the terrible fascination of witnessing something that violated every natural law known to man.
Tristan, still holding his hands outstretched before him in that commanding gesture, simply took a few measured steps backward.
His movements were deliberate and graceful, as if he were conducting some dark symphony only he could hear.
As we all watched in horrified silence, the corpse began to stir.
Ancient joints creaked like rusted hinges.
Desiccated muscles twitched beneath tattered flesh.
Then, with a sound like breaking branches, the thing rose.
A collective gasp rippled through the assembled courtiers. More than one noble lady crumpled to the ground in a dead faint, their silken gowns pooling around them like spilled wine. Even seasoned knights took involuntary steps backward, hands moving instinctively to sword hilts.
The thing wasn't shambling, nor mindless. It moved with purpose, the memory of movement overriding decay. Tristan unsheathed his sword and handed it to his creation. The thing wielded the blade as though remembering its former life, and with that, Tristan bowed.
The silence that followed was absolute.
I'd watched faces around me drain of color. I heard someone retch behind the crowd. Death magic was one thing in theory, quite another when you watched rotted hands grip a blade right in front of you.
But Arthur's reaction struck me hardest.
His expression had gone cold. Not disgusted like the others, but furious in a way that transcended mere distaste for necromancy. His knuckles had whitened around the arms of his throne, and for one breathless moment, I thought he might order Tristan seized on the spot.
Then Mordred leaned close, whispering something that made Arthur's jaw relax. Arthur nodded once—sharp, controlled—and announced Sir Tristan's advancement to the next trial.
"The king didn't care for that display," Percival observed now, pulling me back to the present.
"No, he didn't."
Percival laughed—a genuine, unrestrained sound that cut through the polished stillness of the corridor like sunlight. It sounded almost strange. Human. Real.
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, Sir Lioran.”
My blood chilled as I turned to him, my face remaining neutral. “What secret?”
He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “That you’re actually kind.” Then he winked. “Terrible quality in a knight. Best keep it hidden.”
Relief washed through me. For the first time since embarking on this mission, I laughed. As Lioran. And it felt… oddly good.
“I’ll guard that weakness carefully.”
“Good.” Then he paused. “I hope you will join me at the banquet. I despise formal dinners, yet they become more bearable with someone who doesn’t converse in threats or drone on endlessly about their achievements.”
Before I could respond, Sir Kay appeared—shouldering between us like a wolf carving through sheep. His lips curled in their perpetual sneer as he forced Percival back a step. Every move was deliberate. A dominance display.
Merlin had grossly undersold his unpleasantness.
Up close, Kay's presence was heavy, suffocating. Lines were carved around his mouth by years of bitterness. His eyes roved over me, clearly searching for weakness as was his nature, and I had to force myself not to check if my illusion was still intact.
“Charming water tricks, Lioran,” he said, his voice soaked in acid. “Almost… delicate, wouldn’t you say?”
That word.
Delicate.
I held Lioran’s posture—square shoulders, wide stance, a knight’s stillness.
“While you search for weaknesses, Sir Kay, I prefer to find adaptability. Different approaches for different challenges.”
A beat of silence.
Then Kay’s lip curled higher—somewhere between a snarl and a smile. But he didn’t press further.
Not yet.
“Interesting philosophy,” he offered, his voice smooth as a blade’s edge. “I wonder how it will serve you in the combat trials to come.” He stepped closer, just enough to lower his voice. “Water against steel tends to… evaporate.”
And then he moved on—no flourish, no theatrics. Just a lingering threat that clung to the air like smoke.
Other knights gave him wide berth. Clearly, he was feared, not respected.
“Don’t mind him. He treats everyone that way. Always hunting for cracks.”
I nodded, unsettled. Kay would be watching me in the trials to come, I was sure.
Too closely.
One misstep—one gesture too fluid, too feminine—and his cursed magic might tear through my illusion. Had he already sensed something off about me? Or was this just his nature—paranoia masquerading as power?
“I should rest,” I said to Percival, wanting nothing more than to be alone at the moment.
“Of course. Will you be at the feast later?”
“Yes.”
“Remember my offer. Alliances make these trials survivable.”
I gave a nod and stepped away, conscious of Kay’s eyes tracking me across the hall.
He specialized in exposure. In unmasking.
And if I wasn’t careful, he’d succeed.
-GUIN-
My assigned chamber was… expected.
Camelot, despite its grandeur, embraced function over form. My bedchamber, tucked away in the eastern wing, echoed the fortress's utilitarian spirit. It was no gilded retreat but a soldier's haven—sturdy against the siege of nights, ready for violence's wake.
The bed carried the austere elegance of oak, its frame stolid and unyielding.
Beneath the straw-stuffed mattress, a rope lattice creaked under the weight of my weary body—linen sheets bleached to soft whispers of white.
Deep green wool blankets kept me from the cold, and the single pillow, stuffed with both feather and wool, served well enough.
The furniture spoke of duty more than indulgence. A wooden chest crouched near the foot of the bed, the place where I would store my clothing.
Tapestries lined the walls, depicting scenes from battlefields, while a table, scorched by dripping candle wax, stood to the side of the room, with one solitary chair beside it.
What little warmth was on offer came from a small fireplace, where someone had stoked a fire, but it had since gone out. A washbasin sat nearby, filled with cold water.
Stone stretched underfoot, unyielding like the room itself. A fur pelt in the center of the floor added a whisper of warmth. But even this comfort bowed to Camelot's indifference, reminding me my stay was fleeting, just another leaf caught in its relentless storm.
The only visible flaw was a single loose floorboard beneath the bed—the kind of imperfection that spoke of age rather than neglect. But surface appearances meant nothing when dealing with the magic I suspected was rife within the room.