CHAPTER SEVEN #3
I turned my attention back to the room's orchestrated chaos, yet again finding Lancelot as though drawn by unseen threads.
He sat at one of the larger tables now, a woman draped across his lap.
Beside him was a large goblet, and I was surprised as I watched him lift it, throwing his head back to accommodate a few large gulps.
But then I remembered that Lancelot was taken with drink and women. And I supposed here was a good example.
His eyes softened as he looked at the woman who now had her arms looped around his neck. In his expression was desire, palpable even through the noise and blur of wine. The look he gave the woman was one of pure want, unfiltered and unrestrained.
Gentle envy wove through my curiosity, an unfamiliar sensation edging closer to longing. No man had ever looked at me like that, with raw want. In fact, very few men had ever looked at me at all. Merlin and Corvin hadn't allowed it.
There had been Hardric, of course, and the one moment of a stolen kiss that I had relived more times than I cared to admit.
But then Corvin had swooped down on us like a vengeful deity, plucking me away to the East Tower's cold solitude.
And there he and Merlin had trained me in solitude, keeping me separate from all the others.
Yes, it was also true that in the darkest hours of night, when sleep eluded me and the castle lay in silence, I allowed my mind to wander into forbidden territory.
In some of my most private fantasies—those secret moments when my imagination ran wild and my own fingers traced patterns of desire across my skin—I conjured vivid images of Corvin doing unspeakable, deliciously wicked things to me.
I imagined his hands replacing mine, his mouth hot against my throat, his body pressed against mine in ways that made my breath catch even in memory.
But the cold, harsh reality that greeted me each dawn was far more sobering.
Corvin was nothing more than my tutor and my shadow—a man bound by duty and Merlin's commands to keep me safe, to train me, to mold me into the weapon my father required.
He saw me as a student, a responsibility, perhaps even a burden.
Never as a woman worthy of desire, never as someone who could inspire the kind of raw hunger I'd just witnessed pass between Lancelot and his willing companion.
The painful truth was that my fantasies were just that—figments of a lonely heart desperate for connection, for touch, for someone to see me as more than a weapon to train and hone. I wanted to be viewed as a woman.
My lips parted as I shifted, refocusing on Lancelot.
His hand had disappeared beneath the woman's skirts, discreetly, yes, but the intent was undeniably clear.
The woman responded with a sultry arch, her lips ghosting over his ear.
For a heartbeat, time seemed to narrow, and I found myself caught between embarrassment and rapt fascination with what was unfolding in front of me.
Almost immediately, a wave of jealousy overcame me.
And I had to catch myself. Why did I care whether Lancelot fingered this woman, or ten others, for that matter?
His desire, the object of his affection—none of it should have touched me the way it did now, with a disquieting hunger kindling in my chest.
I didn't care. Not a whit.
Yet as my gaze shifted further down the grand hall, I quietly knew I'd never be able to dismiss the provocation that Lancelot stirred within me, nor the sudden wish that it could have been me on his lap, accepting the feel of his fingers on me.
What in the gods' names was wrong with me?
The night's celebration spun on, fast strains of minstrel music guiding bodies into motion, but I didn't join them. I stood apart, and when I'd seen enough, I slipped from the feast, pleased when no eyes followed me.
Camelot’s corridors were a maze—by design. A defensive strategy with sharp turns, dead ends, and secret alcoves meant to disorient invaders.
I walked them in quiet thought, mapping every landmark: tapestries, sconce patterns, changes in the stonework beneath my feet that marked shifts from public corridors to restricted wings. My hand brushed the walls, feeling for unnatural drafts—possible signs of hidden passages.
Merlin had drilled the castle into me like another blade technique.
These passages could mean escape if I were ever unmasked. Thus, I committed every detail to memory with the same ferocity I’d once applied to combat training. And I forced myself not to call to mind the expression on Lancelot's face when he touched the woman on his lap.
Back in my chamber, I locked the door.
Only then did I exhale.
I let my shoulders drop, stretched my arms, and winced at the stiffness from a day of false posture and subtle restraint.
At the basin, I splashed water on my face. My reflection wavered—Sir Lioran’s sharp features staring back until the ripples blurred the lines.
The disguise drained me.
Not the magic—no, that was the easy part.
It was the behavior. The vigilance. The feeling of constantly being someone you are not.
What was more, men took up space differently.
They moved differently. And they communicated differently.
The body of Sir Lioran I could fake with illusion.
But the performance of masculinity—that required constant effort.
A knock struck the door.
"A message from Sir Lancelot," a voice called through the heavy oak door—likely one of the castle's many pages or servants who delivered communications between the knights.
"All candidates are to report to the training yard at first light tomorrow morning.
Come prepared for the next trial—The Labyrinth Trial. "
The footsteps retreated down the corridor, echoing off the stone walls until they faded into the general murmur of castle life that never truly ceased, even at this late hour.