CHAPTER SIXTEEN
-GUIN-
As I turned back toward the castle, Mordred fell into step beside me.
He said nothing.
His presence was like a shadow—cool, measured, inescapable. His robes whispered against the grass with every step he took, the sound soft but somehow more intrusive than the clatter of the knights’ armor ahead.
I didn’t look at him, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on me—calculating, curious. Mordred’s attention felt like invisible fingers brushing the edges of my disguise—testing, questioning.
“You have done well in the trials thus far, Sir Lioran,” he said, his voice pitched low, meant for me alone.
I bowed my head slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Indeed.” He studied me for a moment too long. “That trial certainly weeded out many of the knights.”
"Yes, it did."
I wasn't sure what he was getting at or if he was getting at anything at all. Perhaps he was simply making conversation? Somehow, I didn't think that was Mordred's way.
"Water magic has always intrigued me. Yours... is unusually fluid.”
I felt like a mouse being played with by a cat. “I have found it's best to work with water’s nature, not against it.”
There was something unreadable in his black eye—a movement just behind the pupil, like something ancient watching from within.
“You’re from the North, yes? From Fenwick Vale, if I'm not mistaken?
" I nodded, even though I wasn't from Fenwick Vale.
But I wanted to keep Camelot as far away from the scent of the real Guinevere as possible, so I couldn't say I was from Eldenvale.
"Curious," Mordred continued. "That region yields few water mages of note.”
I kept my expression placid. “Yes,” I replied smoothly. “Though I am told water mages are rare in any location."
"I suppose they are." Mordred’s thin lips curved into something resembling amusement. "As I am told, you do not hail from a noble family?"
I swallowed hard but nodded. "That is correct."
"Then your parents are?"
"Simple sheep farmers, my lord."
"But your abilities were clearly applauded enough to draw the attention of the noble who sponsored you in these trials?"
"Yes," I nodded.
He frowned. "A Dame—"
"Dame Yseldra."
He frowned again. "I don't believe Dame Yseldra has overseen any of the trials thus far?"
I swallowed hard, knowing these questions were coming but finding them difficult to navigate, all the same. "No, my lord, she is of advanced years and quite… unwell."
"Ah, a pity. I daresay she would have been quite proud of you."
"I hope so."
Mordred was quiet for a few moments. “From what I recall, Fenwick Vale is rather near the Standing Stones?"
I felt my stomach drop. "It is, yes."
"Did you ever encounter anything… peculiar from across the border? Annwyn’s influence is... stronger there—in the North.”
The question was too precise to be idle curiosity.
“I’ve seen strange lights,” I answered carefully. “And I've felt things I couldn’t explain. But I've always avoided the stones and kept my distance from the border.”
“Wise. Though sometimes, what we run from... is exactly what defines us.”
With that, he dipped his head and moved on, robes whispering against the stone of the walkway that led back into the castle's courtyard. I watched him disappear into the shifting crowd of knights and courtiers, a chill clinging to me long after he'd gone.
But no matter. My focus returned to the Labyrinth—and the others who had survived it.
Try though I did, my thoughts kept returning to Sir Kay and his bleeding eyes.
I was convinced the Labyrinth had broken something in him, but it hadn't defeated him. The blood streaming from his eyes hadn’t dulled his hostility—if anything, it had sharpened it.
That made him volatile—a man who clings to his worst nature is more dangerous than one trying to resist it.
Most concerning, though, was the aftertaste the Labyrinth had left in my own mind.
The final chamber—the vision of Arthur and Merlin—still echoed inside me. I’d always believed my mission was clear. That Merlin, despite his flaws, stood for a just future, and Arthur… did not.
But the Labyrinth had shattered that certainty.
Arthur hadn’t appeared as a monster. He'd appeared as a man with hope, with vision, with compassion.
Was it possible the vision the Labyrinth had proposed was just a lie?
Artifice created by Mordred? But how could that be when everything within the Labyrinth simply echoed whatever was in my own mind?
So was I doubting whether or not Arthur was the tyrant I'd previously believed him to be?
Perhaps. I could only then wonder if my newfound doubt was owing to my attraction to the king.
Perhaps my mind couldn't stomach the truth—that I was desirous of a tyrant.
Thus, it was doing its best to prove Arthur wasn't a tyrant.
I didn't know.
And Merlin?
His shadowed face in the Labyrinth hadn’t comforted me. It had chilled me. What if I was just simply a tool to him, a weapon? Molded, shaped, weaponized for a cause I didn't truly understand?
The Labyrinth hadn’t given me answers. It had only opened the doors to more questions.
-KAY-
I leaned against the cold stone wall outside the knights’ quarters, pressing my palms over my eyes. They still burned like hellfire—the price of seeing too clearly in the Labyrinth. Blood had dried in flaking trails down my cheeks, and every blink felt like dragging sandpaper across raw nerves.
The trial had been unkind—brutally so—stripping away every layer of pretense I’d built around myself over the years.
It had forced me to witness the full, festering breadth of my jealousy toward Arthur—my foster brother, my king, my nemesis.
Every petty thought, every silent curse, every moment I’d quietly hoped for his failure was laid bare in merciless detail.
My magic—my curse—had turned inward in the trial, as sharp and punishing as it had always been when directed at others.
The ability to see weakness in all things had shown me my own, dissected in perfect clarity.
Now, hours later, it still scorched behind my eyes like molten lead, burning through the center of my skull, as though looking for a way out.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor—measured, deliberate. I straightened at once, squared my shoulders, and wiped away the last of the dried blood. Vulnerability was a personal matter. I’d never show it to the others, not when my reputation as Arthur’s sharp-tongued shadow depended on my composure.
Lioran.
He moved with maddening precision, every step as if it had been measured out in advance. There was a kind of unnatural poise to him—too smooth, too calm. A knight who spoke like a scholar and moved like a ghost.
He gave me a courteous nod as he passed, that same infuriating deference he always wore like a second cloak.
And then—
My magic surged, sudden and involuntary. Raw as my senses were, I couldn’t stop it.
The world around him shimmered—just for a moment. A flicker, like heat rising from a scorched path. Something around his face, his chest. A veil slipping, however briefly. Something not quite right.
Then it was gone.
The corridor stilled. My breath hitched, though I masked it well.
He kept walking, unbothered.
But my curse had caught a scent.
I blinked, wincing at the pain that lanced through my skull with even that small movement. Was I seeing things?
The Labyrinth had left me flayed open, my magic leaking out uncontrolled, like blood from a wound that refused to clot. Perhaps it was merely exhaustion playing tricks on my senses, my mind conjuring phantoms where none existed.
Yet something about Lioran had always struck me as off.
He moved too gracefully, like a dancer disguised as a warrior.
He was too measured in his speech, each word selected in such a way that bordered on artificial.
The way he held his sword—competent, certainly, but with a grip that suggested it wasn't his first choice of weapon.
The way his eyes lingered too long on Arthur...
I was reminded of a moment only a few hours earlier after the Labyrinth Trial had finished.
I'd watched (as best I could through the blood seeping from my eyes) as Lioran left the trial.
I kept my distance, observing him engage with Mordred.
Their conversation was low, most of the words swallowed by the ambient noise, but I caught fragments here and there—enough to piece together their exchange.
Mordred's posture was relaxed, one hand casually gesturing while Lioran listened intently. Lioran held himself as he always did—with a control that spoke of constant awareness.
Mordred had been questioning Lioran's humble beginnings, a subject I found very interesting.
Most of the knights in Camelot traced their lineage back to noble houses, a tapestry of regal bloodlines weaving through generations.
The majority of us had enjoyed the finest education.
We sparred with seasoned warriors from the moment we could hold a sword.
We wore our lineage like a badge of honor, an entitlement we displayed openly—knights bred for glory.
Lioran, newly arrived and untested, lacked such pedigree.
His origins were murky, lost amidst the shadows of scant introductions.
He'd spoken of being sponsored by Dame Yseldra, a name that held as much credibility in the court as a peddler's fable.
Truly, Yseldra must have been a noble so humble that she'd faded into obscurity like a long-forgotten footnote.
I sensed weakness in Lioran, yes, and now I wondered if that weakness stemmed from his own insecurity.
From knowing how precarious his position was amidst knights who bore their ancestry like a shield?
I wondered if he felt the heat of judgment from those of us who had the enviable luxury of undeniable bloodlines.