CHAPTER EIGHT
-GUIN-
I mentally cataloged the knights I’d observed today.
Percival—with his healing touch and concern for suffering, he might prove to be the closest thing to an ally I could hope to find in this viper's den.
There was something refreshingly genuine about the way he carried himself, a transparency that stood in stark contrast to the calculated masks worn by so many others in Camelot's halls.
Kay—his gaze was too sharp, lingered too long, as if he already sensed something wrong beneath my carefully constructed surface. Every time I caught him watching me during the feast, his thin lips curved into that subtle, knowing smile that made my blood run cold.
There was an intelligence behind that bitter expression that went far beyond simple suspicion. He struck me as the type who would discover my deception not through accident or intuition, but through careful observation and deliberate investigation.
He was dangerous in a way that went beyond mere physical threat, and at this stage, I would have marked him as the third biggest threat to my safety and mission, trailing only behind Arthur himself and Lancelot.
Tristan—his death magic was unsettling, a power that whispered of things better left undisturbed.
The way darkness seemed to cling to him when he moved, the subtle chill that followed in his presence, the knowledge that he could summon the restless dead with nothing more than a gesture—it all made my skin crawl in ways I couldn't quite articulate.
Death magic was perhaps the most unnerving of all the supernatural abilities I had witnessed among these knights.
And yet, despite the macabre nature of his power, something about Tristan himself felt fundamentally different from the calculated menace I sensed in others.
Where Kay's sharp gaze promised cruelty and Lancelot's presence radiated barely contained violence, Tristan carried himself with an almost melancholic grace that seemed at odds with his deadly abilities.
Almost as if there was a poet's soul lurking beneath that handsome exterior—something wounded and romantic that made him feel less like a predator and more like a fellow wanderer lost between worlds.
Or perhaps that was just dangerous thinking.
Tomorrow morning would bring the Labyrinth Trial and with it: new challenges, new trials, and new dangers. More performances. More eyes watching. More chances to slip.
I could only hope Merlin had prepared me well enough. And on that subject, I rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet as I contemplated the man who had taken me in on the fateful day three years ago.
While he had shown me kindness, certainly, Merlin was still a mystery in many ways.
I knew he kept secrets. But he had given me my life back.
Actually, that wasn't true. The old Guin—the dairy maid—had died the same day my parents did.
What Merlin had done was encourage the new Guin to rise from her ashes.
He and Corvin had forged me into the warrior I was today. They hadn't just rebuilt me—they had armed me.
More than that… Merlin had given me purpose when everything else had been taken, stripped away from me. And though I had never said it aloud, the quiet pride in his eyes whenever I mastered something difficult—it meant more than I liked to admit.
Was I his spy? His weapon? Without question. But he was also the closest thing to a father I had had in three years.
The thought triggered memories I couldn’t suppress—my parents' faces. Plain, honest features weathered by sun and labor, shaped by years of tending the land. Their callused hands had never summoned water from thin air or frozen a merchant’s stall in a flash of fury.
So how had two ordinary people given birth to a daughter whose blood surged with raw, elemental magic?
"You have your mother’s eyes," my father used to say.
But hers were hazel—nothing like the strange violet irises that stared back at me from every reflection.
Had they noticed the signs of magic in my blood?
The way puddles trembled as I walked past them?
How plants leaned toward me as though I were the sun?
A deep, dull ache bloomed in my chest as it always did whenever I lost myself to memories.
It was the exact reason I didn't allow myself to focus on the past. There was nothing but pain in my memories, and painful memories wouldn't help me stay alive. I forced the thoughts away, breathing in deeply to calm myself. I couldn’t afford sentiment.
Not here. Not now. Memories were luxuries—fit for those with simpler missions than mine.
As for my mission, Merlin would be waiting now, wondering if I’d survived the first Shadow Trial. If I’d passed.
And if his weapon had been worth the years he’d spent sharpening her.
I ensured my chamber door was locked, then traced its edges with my fingers, whispering the noise-dampening charm Merlin had taught me.
The magic settled like a thin veil across the wood—subtle enough to avoid the castle’s detection wards (which I was sure had to exist somewhere within Camelot), but potent enough to muffle any sound that might escape.
Next, I approached the basin and poured water from the pitcher, watching as it responded to my presence.
After dipping my fingers into the basin and repeating the proper words, the water stirred, swirling gently without touch, as if sensing my intent.
Then it stilled, forming a perfect doorway into Caer Gwyll.
I centered my thoughts, organizing the details I’d collected: the knights who still remained, the Summoning Trial, Arthur’s reaction to my display.
"The first trial is complete," I whispered softly, even though there was no one in the room.
My words would hover in the air—a message Merlin could activate as soon as he returned.
"I've passed." I paused, then added, "Thirty-five candidates remain from fifty.
The Labyrinth Trial occurs tomorrow at dawn. "
The water rippled, absorbing my voice—each word, each impression sinking into its depths to be carried back to Merlin. When I was finished, I stared at the still surface a moment longer, reassured by the silent promise of connection.
A sound outside my window pulled my attention, and I noticed, with interest, that the owl from earlier had returned.
I ran my fingers through the basin of water once more, disturbing the image of Caer Gwyll until the bottom of the basin was the only reflection.
My ties to Merlin were cut for the moment.
Then I walked to the window and unlatched it, pushing it open with a gentle creak. The cool night air brushed my skin as I gazed at the owl that was perched on the nearby branch, its eyes gleaming like twin moons.
"You've returned."
The owl tilted its head, its round eyes never leaving mine. A soft hoot answered my question.
"Have you been hunting mice or perhaps rabbits?"
"Hoot. Hoot."
I couldn't tell if that was a yes or a no. There were students of Merlin's who had beast sense and could communicate with animals, and I always envied them. And in this moment, I still envied them.
"Well, you have as much right as any other creature in Camelot to go where you please."
"Hoot. Hoot."
"So, what are you doing in this tree, outside my window? Is your home nearby?"
The owl fluffed its feathers, stretching its great wings. With a final, solemn hoot, the owl launched into the air, gliding into the night as its silent silhouette disappeared beyond Camelot's walls.
I watched until it was just a shadow; then it blinked into the darkness.
-GUIN-
As I walked, shadows stretched and twisted through a cavernous expanse where the air tasted of smoke and sulfur, catching in my throat until I could barely breathe. Ancient stone glistened with dampness, throwing reflections in pools that shimmered a greenish gold—serpentine, sickly.
A rhythmic pulse throbbed beneath my feet, beating so loudly that it threatened to drown my own heartbeat in its fury.
I stepped deeper into the oppressive darkness, my boots echoing against what I had assumed was stone flooring.
The acrid smoke burned my lungs with each shallow breath I took, and I found myself moving more cautiously as the sulfurous stench grew stronger.
Something felt wrong about this place—terribly, fundamentally wrong.
Was the ground beneath me moving?
Dropping down on my haunches, I extended my trembling hands to feel the stone beneath my feet, desperate to orient myself in this nightmare realm.
But instead of cold stone or even damp earth, my fingertips encountered something else entirely: scales.
Massive, overlapping scales that were warm to the touch and slightly damp with condensation from the humid air.
My heart hammered as I pressed my palms flat against the surface, trying to comprehend what I was touching.
Beneath the thick, armor-like scales, I could feel the slow, rhythmic twitching of enormous muscles, the subtle shifting of bones that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions.
The pulsing I'd felt through my feet wasn't coming from some distant source—it was a heartbeat, steady and powerful, reverberating through the massive form beneath me.
Whatever this creature was, it was undeniably alive—terrifyingly, overwhelmingly alive. And I was standing directly on top of it, balanced precariously on what I now understood was the broad expanse of its slumbering back.
Every instinct screamed at me to run, to flee this nightmare, but my legs had turned to lead beneath me.
The creature's breathing created a gentle rise and fall that made me sway with each massive inhalation, as if I were adrift on some primordial sea.
Its warmth seeped through the soles of my boots, a heat so intense it felt like I was standing near a forge.