CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
My knees struck the ground with a shuddering gasp, and I braced myself on my hands and knees to keep from tipping forward onto my face.
I released the Whisperstone without realizing it, but the magic had already exhausted itself in the Labyrinth, and now it simply dissolved into the earth as if it had never been.
Meanwhile, cold air rushed into my lungs.
The stone circle surrounded me once again, the sun cresting the horizon like a blade of gold.
Around me, other knights knelt in silence—some weeping, others shaking, a few staring into the middle distance with eyes that saw more than the present. They were clearly changed. Branded. Never to be the same again.
And I was one of them.
But I hadn't been broken.
One truth crystallized in my mind with absolute clarity: I would question every decision laid before me, scrutinize each path with the hard-won wisdom this trial had granted me.
No longer would I accept the word of kings or sorcerers simply because they spoke with authority.
No longer would I be swayed by others' opinions of what was right or wrong, just or unjust—not when such opinions usually served their own ambitions.
The weight of that independence settled on my shoulders like armor I had forged myself, heavy but necessary. Every choice from this moment forward would be mine to make, every consequence mine to bear. The thought filled me with a fierce, quiet strength I hadn't known I possessed.
But I possessed it in spades.
I rose shakily to my feet, my legs unsteady after the mental journey I'd just taken.
The other knights were still emerging from their trances—some triumphant, others broken by what they'd faced within the Labyrinth's depths. A quick count confirmed that I was among the first ten to complete the trial.
Arthur leaned forward on his throne, his expression revealing genuine interest as he surveyed the successful candidates. Beside him, Mordred made notes in a small leather-bound book, pausing occasionally to exchange quiet words with the king.
When Mordred's gaze fell on me, his eyes narrowed—not with suspicion, but with curiosity, as though he were studying a puzzle box with hidden compartments.
Not as a master examining a student, or even as the king's advisor assessing a knight, but as someone who sensed something inside me he couldn’t quite name.
His head tilted slightly, silver-streaked hair shifting with the movement, as if he were listening to something only he could hear.
The moment stretched before Mordred finally inclined his head slowly. Was it respect? Or merely acknowledgment of something… unexpected? I couldn't be sure. Relief prickled down my arms when his gaze shifted away from me.
Sir Gawain had stepped from his trance third overall, his face ashen but composed.
Though he spoke to no one, the sunlight streaming through the stone circle brightened noticeably around him.
He carried himself like a man who had seen something true and painful and come out the other side changed—but intact.
Sir Agravaine emerged fifth, his expression a mask.
Composed. Unmarked. Unshaken. But too perfect.
Suspiciously so. Unlike the others, who bore visible signs of their struggle—sweat-slicked brows, bruises from illusions made flesh—Agravaine looked untouched.
Whatever he’d faced in the Labyrinth… he hadn't mastered it. He’d made a deal with it.
My attention shifted to Percival, who had emerged fifteenth.
His body convulsed violently, his face contorted in raw agony as tears streamed down his cheeks.
He whispered names—dozens of them—in rapid succession, each one seeming to wrench a fresh wound open within him.
His back arched with every syllable, as though each name struck him like a physical blow.
I wondered if the Labyrinth had forced him to experience the suffering of those people he’d failed to heal—if it had forced him to face his own guilt, just as it had with me.
The gentle knight rose at last, still weeping, but there was something new in his eyes—a quiet understanding that transcended his suffering.
He looked across the circle and met my gaze.
In that single glance, I felt the weight of shared survival, the unspoken knowledge that both of us had faced something unendurable.
We exchanged a nod, solemn and respectful, before returning our attention to those still emerging.
Whatever warmth Percival inspired within me curdled quickly when Sir Kay followed. Blood streamed from his eyes, his expression a mask of fury locked behind lips pressed into a bloodless line. I instantly recoiled at the mere sight of him.
When his gaze found mine, a shiver traced my spine. There was something new behind his eyes—something volatile. Not fear. Not grief. Not even understanding. It was the look of a man who’d not just faced his darkness but had embraced it. His success felt more like a warning than a victory.
Sir Gareth staggered forth next, the final knight to emerge.
Angry red welts covered his arms, the blistering burns unmistakable.
The acrid scent of scorched flesh drifted on the wind, catching in my throat.
His elemental gift—fire—had clearly turned on him.
But even so, he walked with pride in each painful step.
Arthur nodded to him, the faintest glimmer of respect in his expression. "Self-mastery through sacrifice," he murmured, just loud enough for those nearest to hear.
Before the physicians could even rise, Percival was already at Gareth’s side. Whatever torment Percival had endured moments ago, he seemed to cast it off as he dropped to his knees. Sweat clung to his curls, his skin ashen, but his hands moved with purpose.
He placed his palms gently over Gareth’s worst burns, his fingers trembling slightly, and closed his eyes.
A soft golden light bloomed beneath his touch.
I watched, transfixed, as the glow grew stronger, Gareth’s damaged skin gradually fading from blistered crimson to soft pink.
But as the wounds vanished from Gareth’s arms, identical marks appeared—faint but unmistakable—on Percival’s own.
"You shouldn't," Gareth whispered, weakly resisting. "You’ve just endured your own trial."
"This too is mine to bear," Percival replied, his jaw set with quiet resolve.
Gareth exhaled shakily as the pain clearly eased, while Percival’s face tightened with matching agony. Yet still, he smiled.
The Labyrinth had claimed its due. Of the thirty-five knights who had entered with such confidence that morning, only twenty-three returned with minds still intact.
Healers swept through the circle like crows through a battlefield, tending to those who had survived but not escaped unscarred.
Two hadn’t survived the ordeal.
They’d been carried away moments earlier, their bodies surrendered to heart failure brought on by magical strain.
I watched as the court physician pressed trembling fingers to still-warm necks, searching for pulses that would never return.
That troubled me more than I could say, but I swallowed the upset and forced my focus back to the living.
The remaining knights had technically awakened, but their minds were shattered.
Some wept uncontrollably, curled into themselves like wounded children.
Others babbled incoherently, clawing at their own skin as though trying to rid themselves of something unseen.
Guards were already moving among them, helping—or dragging—them away.
The worst, though, was Sir Bors.
A mountain of a man, Sir Bors had been one of the original Knights of the Round Table.
Even though his earth magic had impressed everyone during the Summoning, he now thrashed violently.
His back arched at a sickening angle, his mouth locked in a scream of pure terror as his hands clawed at invisible foes.
“Get him out of his trance!” Arthur barked, rising sharply from his throne.
Mordred surged forward, placing a circular talisman on Bors's forehead. Then Mordred raised his arms, fingers already weaving the signs of an extraction spell. The runes on the talisman ignited in brilliant blue, flaring as he chanted—seeking to sever Bors’s mind from the Labyrinth.
But it was too late.
Blue fire erupted across Bors’s body—not natural flame, but something older, crueler. Cobalt tongues of fire danced along his skin, burning not with heat but with a terrifying intelligence, as if the flame itself meant to erase him. The light shimmered as it devoured him.
Mordred staggered back, shielding his face with one arm.
Even from where I stood, the fire reached me—not with searing heat but with a bone-deep cold that crawled along my spine.
I wanted to turn away, to shut my eyes, but I couldn't. I was transfixed as Sir Bors’s body blackened, then collapsed inward on itself. Within seconds, the screams stopped.
Only a heap of ash remained.
The wind stirred, lifting those gray remnants into the air like snowflakes, scattering them across the circle—no trace left of the man who had stood so tall just hours before.
Silence fell.
Arthur stepped forward, haloed by the sun behind him.
His silhouette cut a powerful figure—broad-shouldered, unyielding, carved from light and shadow—and I couldn't help but wonder: Was there more to the king than I had assumed?
Had his hand been forced where magic was concerned?
I didn't know, but I intended to find out.
He looked out over the survivors—those of us who had made it through the trial intact, or at least still standing—with a gaze equal parts pride and gravity.
“The Labyrinth reveals what lies beneath the surface of your minds,” he said, his voice clear and deliberate.
“Some men are consumed by fear, anger, greed, shame—the list goes on. Others rise above their weaknesses. Remember what you faced today—for a knight of Camelot must first confront his darkness before he can truly serve the light.”
Mordred joined him. “Whatever you witnessed within the Labyrinth was not illusion, but truths you harbor deep within you. Many truths with which you struggle. The dangers within you are not fantasy—they are the parts of your psyche most likely to destroy you.”
The images I’d seen—of Arthur, of Merlin—lingered. Neither man had appeared wholly righteous or wicked. They had been contradictions: builder and destroyer, tyrant and protector, visionary and manipulator.
And the worst part?
I hadn’t known which one to believe.
As much as I hated questioning Merlin’s intentions, something inside me squirmed at the idea that I might have judged Arthur too harshly.
The man who had spoken to me within the Labyrinth, the boy king—that was not the monster I’d always believed him to be.
That wasn’t the man who had persecuted those with magic… or was it?
My mission demanded certainty. But the Labyrinth had only given me questions.
What if both Arthur and Merlin were not as black and white as I'd been led to believe? What if I shouldn't trust either one of them?