CHAPTER THIRTEEN
-GUIN-
The lake was now behind me, and I could see Camelot's spires in the distance.
The mist parted like a veil, curling away from my body in soft tendrils that guided me forward. It felt almost alive—sentient—and it cleared a path just wide enough for me to escape. I didn’t question the mercy. I ran, breath ragged, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
The ground, slick with mud, should’ve slowed me, but it didn’t. Instead, water swirled around my ankles, pushing me forward. The earth firmed beneath my feet with each stride I took, preventing me from slipping, as if something unseen wanted me to escape.
I could hear Arthur's footsteps not terribly far behind me. The mist had held him, but not for long.
"GUARDS!" Arthur's voice suddenly rang out, echoing through the trees. "TO THE LAKE! NOW! Find a servant girl with white hair. Bring her to me. ALIVE."
I didn't know how he'd managed to make his voice carry so far and sound so loud. But I didn't have time to further consider it because the sounds of metal clanging, of voices raised in shock and panic, hit my ears, which could only mean one thing—Arthur’s guard mobilizing.
And then came the hounds.
Distant but closing in: the iron-choked baying of machines bred for hunting witches. My blood turned cold. Even now, they’d be loosed from their kennels, their red eyes already scenting the magic Arthur knew I wielded.
I didn’t dare look back.
The mist thickened behind me, forming a solid wall. Ahead, it continued to clear—just enough. A trail shimmered through reeds and water where no trail should have existed.
This wasn’t my magic… at least I didn’t think it was. And it didn't bear the signature of Merlin either. Yet, it felt familiar—like an echo of something buried deep inside me.
Minutes.
I had minutes—no more—to outrun the hounds, the knights, and the wrath of the king I was supposed to destroy.
I burst from the treeline, breath ragged, heart thundering. Images flashed through my mind—being torn apart by Iron Hounds or burning alive atop a pyre.
No, I insisted. That isn't your fate.
Camelot loomed ahead, its silhouette slicing into the night sky. Hundreds of torches flickered along its towering stone walls like malevolent stars. I could see the glint of armor along the battlements—guards pacing, awaiting further instructions from their king.
I reached the castle grounds—gardens, fountains, deceptive beauty masking the horror that awaited me if I were caught. Somewhere behind those walls was the courtyard where they'd drag me. Where they'd burn me or run me through with their blades.
And I was more than sure there were guards awaiting me.
No, I couldn't enter the castle from this direction.
So, where the fuck was I going to go then?
A glimmer. Moonlight caught on water. A stream. It fed from the lake and cut across the grounds ahead.
Without hesitation, I plunged into it. The cold bite of the water should have been shocking against my skin, but it wasn't. It was welcoming. Merlin’s voice echoed in my mind: Move upstream. Always upstream.
The current fought me, but I forced each step, praying the water would mask my trail and my scent. If the Iron Hounds scented me, it would be over.
Moonlight shimmered on the rippling surface. I crouched low, slipping through reeds, my skirts sodden and clinging to my legs, making it even more difficult to move. My calves burned. My lungs screamed. But I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t.
All the while, Merlin’s voice echoed in my head—one of his first lessons: “Water cleanses. Confuses. It is your ally.”
The stream deepened suddenly, and I gasped as it surged to my waist, stealing the air from my lungs. I forced myself forward, fingers brushing the surface. The water answered, calming my wake, ripples disappearing unnaturally fast.
Above, the moon vanished behind a bank of clouds, cloaking the land in deeper shadow. I welcomed the darkness, even as I cursed the lack of light to guide my steps. The reeds thickened, whispering against my skin as I crouched lower, shoulders nearly submerged now, my heavy cloak pulling me down.
Then—the sound of clicking. Faint, metallic. The Iron Hounds were getting closer. Their handlers’ voices drifted through the night, sharp as knives.
Ahead, the stream vanished beneath the castle’s outer wall, funneled through a rusted iron grate. The grate was too narrow to fit through—but I had no choice. I couldn't turn around. I could only hope the grate was more forgiving under the water. My chest tightened with dread.
Get through or die.
I pressed against the cold metal, searching the corroded edges for any signs of give or weakness. One corner had decayed just enough—barely a gap.
It would have to do.
I ducked beneath the surface, the water closing over my head like a liquid shroud.
I twisted, shoulders angled, arms tucked, forcing myself through the gap.
Rusted iron tore through the fabric of my clothing, then through my flesh.
I bit back a scream as pain bloomed across my back.
The grate caught me—trapped my cloak—my body wedged in the narrow maw.
Move. Move. MOVE.
But I couldn't move. I was jammed, and I did exactly what I shouldn't have. In all the chaos and shock of being pursued, my body betrayed me—panic overriding training as I inhaled sharply.
The water should have slammed into my lungs, drowning me in this narrow channel beneath Camelot's ancient walls.
My mind screamed for air, for the familiar burn of oxygen filling my chest. Instead, something impossible happened—the water flowed into my lungs as naturally as the sweetest air, cool and life-giving.
My chest rose and fell in a natural rhythm beneath the current, as if I'd been born to this underwater existence.
The sensation was both terrifying and miraculous—like discovering I had wings when falling from a cliff.
This wasn't magic I'd trained for; it wasn't an ability Merlin had taught me to harness.
This was something deeper, something that came from the marrow of my bones.
I could breathe underwater. For a heartbeat, I forgot the pursuit, forgot the danger, lost myself in the wonder of this newfound gift.
Then—something gave—the cloak ripped as I surged forward.
Metal groaned against corroded rivets, or perhaps it was flesh surrendering to desperate need—I didn't know which, and in that moment, I didn't care.
All I knew was the blessed relief as I slipped through that small gap, my body sliding free like a sword from its sheath.
A gasp tore from my throat when I finally broke the surface into the outer bailey, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I was inside the castle walls.
And I was alive.
For now.
I emerged from the stream, water pooling around my slippers as I staggered forward. The servants’ quarters loomed ahead—low thatched roofs hunched beneath the towering walls of Camelot.
I glanced behind.
I was alone. No guards. No hounds. No one.
I slipped into the shadows between the bakehouse and chandlery, pressing my back to the cold stone. The quiet felt deafening. I counted each breath, steadying the panic still lacing through my ribs.
One. Two. Three.
The Iron Hounds would be scouring the stream by now, joints clicking over the stones, their handlers wielding torches to burn back the dark. They might find white strands of hair on the grate, might taste magic in the air.
But they wouldn’t find me.
They couldn’t.
Because by the time they reached the castle, I would be Sir Lioran again.
I closed my eyes, summoning the magic from deep within me. It rose like a cold current through my veins—first a trickle, then a rush. My fingertips tingled. Water vapor lifted from my sodden skin, spiraling upward in curling tendrils before vanishing as steam.
"Visualization is the foundation of illusion," Merlin’s voice echoed in my mind. "See not what you are, but what you must become."
My body shimmered.
My outline blurred.
Shoulders broadened. Curves dissolved. Violet eyes dimmed to blue as the illusion washed over me. There was no pain. Only relief when the frightened scullery maid was gone.
And in her place stood Sir Lioran.
Chainmail glinted faintly in the dark. My hands—larger now, rougher—adjusted the sword at my hip.
I was now a knight. A man. A mask I wore well.
Heart pounding, I stepped into the torchlight and took a deep breath.
I was just another knight returning from too much wine and too little sleep.
-ARTHUR-
As had been the case all evening, my thoughts kept returning to the girl.
After she'd disappeared into the fog, I'd wrestled the dragon back into submission, something that had not been easy.
Then I'd faced my guards, and together we tracked her to a stream that fed into the lake.
But there her scent had grown cold. It was as if she'd simply disappeared into the water.
Or had sprouted wings and simply flown away.
Regardless, we searched the entire stream, the lake, the surrounding woods, and the grounds of Camelot, both inside and out, for hours. There was no sign of her. She’d vanished as if she were nothing more than a specter, a ghost.
As soon as my search had proven fruitless, I'd gone after the only man who might succeed where I had failed: the Fox. No one could dredge the depths of secrecy better than he, and none had yet outmaneuvered him in his pursuit of truth veiled in shadows.
We met in a secluded chamber hidden within the castle's many secret rooms. This part of Camelot remained largely unknown, even to those who had spent their lives within its stone walls.
I preferred it that way, especially when dealing with matters too delicate for the prying eyes and ears of my court.