CHAPTER SEVEN #2
I began my search like a thief casing a vault, methodical and thorough.
My fingers trailed along the floorboards, testing for more hidden compartments or concealed areas that might activate listening spells.
I checked behind each tapestry, running my hands across the cold stone walls for any irregularities that might house scrying crystals.
Every piece of furniture received my attention—peering beneath the bed frame, examining the bottom of the table, the chest, even checking the washbasin for enchantments that might record conversations through liquid resonance.
I searched for the subtle telltale signs of a room that had been tampered with: scratch marks where furniture had been moved to install magical devices, dust patterns that didn't quite match the room's layout, or the faint residual energy that clung to objects touched by sorcery. But I could find nothing.
Then my gaze landed on the mirror at the far end of the room. It was a large, ornate monstrosity mounted on the wall directly opposite the bed. Its gilded frame curled with intertwining dragons and crossed swords—far too extravagant for a knight’s quarters.
And positioned perfectly for surveillance.
I approached the mirror.
Silver glass reflected Sir Lioran. I raised a hand and pressed it to the cool surface. A faint tingle sparked across my fingertips as I whispered Merlin’s detection spell.
“Revelio arcanum.”
Magic stirred inside me—flowing from my core to my hand like a river through stone. The glass should have shimmered with telltale blue if even the faintest enchantment clung to it.
But there was nothing. Interesting.
Turning to face the rest of the room, I expanded the sweep, sending my detection magic above the bed, behind the washbasin, near the window, and across the doorframe. One could never be too careful…
Each time, my magic extended outward like a net. And each time, it returned empty.
No surveillance spells. No wards. No trace of enchantment.
And that struck me as odd.
In a castle ruled by a king obsessed with control—especially magical control—this room was shockingly… innocent.
As I continued to ponder the implications of an unenchanted room in Camelot, I crossed to the window for a breath of fresh air.
Outside, sprawling gardens stretched toward the outer walls, their geometric designs standing in stark contrast to the wild lands beyond. But it wasn't the gardens that captured my attention—a shadow moved in the tree closest to my window, a dark silhouette amidst the leafy branches.
An owl. Both massive and majestic, it was perched in the tree just outside my window with wide eyes the color of amber.
"What a beautiful creature you are."
"Hoot."
For a moment, we locked gazes, and the bird just stared at me.
Then, without warning, the owl stretched its broad wings and took off into the air, ascending into the sky with powerful strokes. I watched until it vanished into the clouds, leaving an unsettling emptiness behind.
-GUIN-
Lancelot entered the hall quietly, without ceremony, yet somehow pulling every eye to him the moment he crossed the threshold. Even mine.
He’d traded his training gambeson for a deep indigo tunic, the color so rich it seemed stolen from the night sky itself.
It fit him too well—broad shoulders stretching the fabric, narrow waist accentuated by a black leather belt with a silver clasp shaped like a growling wolf.
His surcoat hung open, sleeveless, embroidered in gold thread that caught the torchlight and sketched the outline of a warrior who moved far too gracefully for a man built of muscle and scars.
His dark hair, still damp from washing away the day's trials, was tied back at the nape of his neck. A few rebellious strands fell loose, brushing his cheeks.
But it was his eyes that undid me.
Not because they were sharp or beautiful—though they were both—but because they didn’t soften here, in the place where every other knight allowed himself to relax. Lancelot didn’t. His gaze slid over the hall without lingering on any one person for long.
And when those eyes found me, something in his posture shifted. Barely. A tightening of his jaw, a breath he didn’t take all the way in.
Heat climbed up my neck.
He looked away first.
But not before giving me that glance—brief, assessing, intimate in a way that felt dangerous. A look that said he saw something in me the disguise didn’t quite hide. Something soft. Something wrong. Something that displeased him.
He took his seat two places down from Arthur, his mantle sliding from his shoulder as he sat. He didn’t smile. He didn’t boast. He didn’t join the others in drowning their nerves in wine.
Lancelot simply existed, a gravity unto himself, the kind of man whose presence pressed heat into the space around him.
I would enjoy cutting him down when the time came. And I'd already promised myself that time would come, regardless of what Merlin said.
Pulling my attention from the legendary knight, I focused on the Great Hall, which was currently overflowing with knights and nobles.
Their voices clashed like steel—boasts, exaggerated war stories, and court gossip passed between wine-wet lips.
Jeweled goblets gleamed beside pretentious smiles and barbed gossip, as hundreds of candles threw flickering light from the iron chandeliers far above.
While noblewomen of the court were suspiciously absent, serving girls in gauzy linen that concealed little, and women of ambiguous status—dancers, musicians, companions with painted lips and knowing smiles—moved in their place.
They floated among the knights and noblemen, draping themselves across laps, whispering promises or flattery in eager ears.
There was a current of debauchery beneath the splendor—a rot just beneath the surface. This was not the Camelot of Merlin’s stories. This was Arthur’s Camelot. A kingdom of power, not purity. And it was interesting to watch.
I positioned myself near a pillar, wine in hand, barely sipping. Intoxication was a luxury I couldn’t afford—not with my life balanced on the edge of illusion. Instead, I observed.
The invisible lines of power revealed themselves quickly.
Northern lords clustered tight, their booming laughter masking tense debates. Southern nobles orbited Arthur’s table, offering polished compliments with calculated intent. Lancelot moved between them like a silent blade—parting the crowd without effort, commanding every table he passed.
I found myself watching him too closely.
There was grace in his movement—precision married to raw strength.
No gesture wasted. No motion unconsidered.
And more than that, others felt him coming.
Knights straightened when he passed. Lords stumbled over their words.
Lancelot didn't speak unless directly addressed, and when he did, it was with measured brevity.
A southern lord, already deep in his cups, tried to trap Lancelot in some drunken tale of conquest, but Lancelot ended the conversation in three sentences and a polite nod that sent the man back to his seat, flushed with embarrassment.
I didn’t know what held my attention more—the contrast between his deadly reputation and quiet restraint, or the shadow of something I couldn't name—was it boredom?—that seemed stitched into the seams of his silence. Whatever it was, it was intriguing.
Don’t find him intriguing, I warned myself. You’re not here to find anyone intriguing.
That was true.
And more troubling—Lancelot, as leader of the King's Guard, could have been the one who called the order to murder my parents. I would likely never discover the truth, as I imagined such things as murder had become commonplace over recent years.
Regardless, the thought hit me like a stone in the chest.
If Lancelot had a hand in their deaths, I would seek my revenge against him, just as I planned to do with Arthur.
Speaking of which, I forced my gaze to the king.
He sat at the high table, posture perfect, crown glinting in the firelight as he surveyed his kingdom. His eyes swept the room, pausing on every knight who’d impressed him: Agravaine with his wind magic, Galahad with his piercing light. I noticed Arthur's gaze purposely avoided Tristan.
But strangely, Arthur’s gaze returned to me too often—his expression unreadable. Was it suspicion in his eyes? I doubted it was admiration, as I hadn't impressed him with my display during the Summoning Trial. Was it recognition of something in my magic that echoed Merlin’s hand?
I held Lioran’s calm, steady mask, meeting the king’s gaze with a respectful nod before looking away. Not too eager. Not too aloof.
“Quite the display you put on today, Sir Lioran.”
Tristan.
I hadn’t seen him approach.
He appeared effortlessly at my side, voice smooth. “Your water magic has… unusual qualities.”
“As does your necromancy. Not many can make hardened warriors petrified.”
He smiled faintly. “Death is but the other side of life. No more. No less."
Before I could respond, the room's painted butterflies descended on the handsome knight as if they'd been waiting for this exact moment all evening.
Gowns of silk, lips of crimson, voices laced with sugar and aim.
The women gathered around Tristan like petals drawn to sunlight.
He let them, his thoughtful expression dissolving behind a practiced smile.
One draped herself across his arm. Another whispered something that made him laugh, head tilted back in effortless charm.
"If you'll excuse me, Sir Lioran," he said, and I just nodded, watching him disappear in the midst of silk, velvet, and cleavage.
I nodded briefly to Percival when he passed. As soon as he started toward me, a cluster of young lords intercepted him, barraging him with questions. And that was just as well. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.