CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
-GUIN-
That evening, as the castle celebrated the survivors of the Labyrinth Trial, I stood apart from the revelry, nursing a growing pain between my eyes.
The great hall of Camelot roared with life. Knights laughed too loudly, reliving their victories in embellished detail while goblets overflowed with ale and platters of roasted meat vanished as quickly as they appeared. Servants moved like shadows, keeping pace with the demands of celebration.
Unlike the others clustered at the long oak tables, I remained near one of the great stone pillars, half-hidden in flickering torchlight.
It offered just enough cover to observe without being drawn in.
The strain of maintaining my disguise had deepened with each passing hour.
After the emotional flaying of the Labyrinth, keeping up my disguise as Sir Lioran felt brittle—too tightly wound around me, like armor that no longer fit.
The truth was, I needed to release it—needed to return to myself in the comfort of my own chamber.
Soon. I promised myself. Soon.
I nursed a barely touched cup of mead, performing just enough festivity to blend in while keeping enough distance to avoid deeper scrutiny. The hall's warmth felt oppressive, pressing against my skin and lungs, as though the air resented the illusion I wore.
“Not one for celebrations, Sir Lioran?”
I turned to find Percival beside me. His gentle expression still carried shadows from the trial, though he tried to mask them behind soft civility. His hands—still bearing the ghost of Gareth’s burns—twitch occasionally, the memory of pain refusing to be forgotten.
“I find reflection more valuable than revelry,” I said evenly.
Percival nodded. “The Labyrinth leaves its mark on us all—some wear it openly, others bury it deep. But it changes everyone.”
My gaze drifted to the far end of the hall where Kay sat, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed squarely on me.
His eyes were no longer bleeding, but they remained bloodshot, rimmed in a fatigue that looked more spiritual than physical.
His stare made my stomach clench. It wasn’t the blind hatred he often wore—it was interest.
Measured, calculating interest.
And that was far worse.
“Sir Kay seems... particularly affected,” I offered, trying to sound bored.
Percival followed my gaze. “Kay’s gift is both a blade and a burden. He sees weakness in all things—including himself. I assume the Labyrinth would have forced him to look inward. And Kay has never been fond of mirrors.”
I bit back a grim smile. Neither was I.
And now, across the hall, Arthur entered.
A rush of heat bloomed in my chest, dangerous and unbidden.
I crushed it instantly, forcing the feeling down, where it couldn't betray me.
Whatever had happened between us by the lake had been a mistake.
An indulgence. One I could not afford to repeat.
And it would never happen again because Arthur would never meet Guinevere again. I would make dead sure of it.
Arthur was flanked by Lancelot and Mordred, the trinity of power that governed Camelot’s walls with blade, magic, and will.
Lancelot stood sentinel at the king’s right, his black armor drinking in the torchlight, his hand never straying far from his sword.
Mordred, ever the watchful serpent, moved with the slow grace of suspicion made flesh, his mismatched eyes scanning the crowd.
But Arthur...
Arthur moved like he didn’t have to care, like he was born into the air of command.
His crown sat like a weight on his head, gold catching firelight with each slow step he took.
His face was the picture of listless detachment—a king unmoved, unimpressed, untouched.
But I'd seen behind that expression once.
I'd seen the fire banked beneath, and I couldn't seem to get that visual out of my head.
As his gaze swept the room, I readied myself. When his eyes found me, I would be calm. Steady. Lioran. Not Guinevere by the lake.
I took a slow breath as the moment arrived. Our eyes met.
For one second too long, his gaze held mine. I didn’t know what he saw—but I felt it. I forced my pulse to steady and my eyes to remain cool. And then his gaze moved on.
Beside me, Percival spoke, almost as if sensing the storm beneath my stillness.
“The next trial approaches. The Duel, if I'm correct.”
I looked up at him then. "Were you a member of Arthur's elite before the ban on magic?"
"You mean was I an original member of the Round Table?" I nodded as Percival shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The only knights who were present then were Lancelot, Kay, Agravaine, and Galahad." He cleared his throat. "Well, and Bors." Then he made a motion of crossing his chest.
My heart immediately began pounding as the memory of what had happened to Sir Bors in The Labyrinth Trial came back to me horrifically.
"Was the Round Table so small?" I asked, wondering what Corvin was doing at that exact moment. Of course, I hadn't expected Percival to mention Corvin since the latter hadn't returned to the Shadow Trials. But it was nice to think about him, all the same.
Percival shook his head once more. "There were others, but some did not return this time around. Those who did I mentioned by name."
Thoughts of Corvin caused a pain to well up within me, something that felt like homesickness, which didn't really make much sense because I didn't consider Annwyn my home.
Strangely, though, I didn't consider Logres my home either.
I swallowed hard and decided to change the topic.
“What can you tell me about The Hunt Trial?”
Percival glanced down into his wine. “Not much, I'm afraid. Just whispers among the knights. Rumors."
"And what are those rumors?"
But before Percival could answer, he was interrupted by the arrival of a honey-blonde woman gliding through the crowd with the grace of someone who’d learned early in life that attention was power. She held a steaming mug in her hands.
Her crimson silk gown clung to every curve before falling to the floor like spilled wine, the bodice cut low enough to make her ruby pendant appear to float just above the swell of her large, round breasts.
There was something predatory in her smile as her kohl-lined gaze swept over me without a flicker of subtlety. I'd seen her once before—at the celebration following the Summoning Trial—perched firmly in Lancelot’s lap like a content cat. His hands had been up her gown.
"I believe I’ll leave you to your revelry, Sir Lioran," Percival said, offering a nod and a half-smile that carried more insight than politeness.
He didn’t linger, and I wished he had.
I inclined my head in return just before my newest visitor took the space beside me.
More striking than her appearance was her bearing—poised but unapologetic, shoulders squared and chin tilted just high enough to command attention without inviting reprimand.
She held herself like someone who belonged in any room she entered, regardless of what others thought.
"You look like you could use this." She offered the steaming cup to me as she took the untouched mead from my hands. “For the headache that follows the Labyrinth.”
I stared at her, blinking. "How did you—?"
"—everyone who survives wears the same look." She then gestured between her eyes to the exact place where my head continued to thrum in ache.
There was a disarming quality to her tone—direct, confident, unbothered. Rare, in a court where even sincerity was often rehearsed.
"Thank you." I inhaled the tea’s aromatic steam. Lavender and chamomile, yes—but notes of something else. Something unfamiliar.
"A touch of moonflower," she explained, catching my expression. “To soften the dreams that follow.”
"Moonflower is illegal in Logres. It's associated with dream magic."
Her smile sharpened. “Some rules bend—for those who know when and how to apply pressure.” Her voice dropped slightly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Lioran?”
I studied her carefully now. That smile was too practiced, too knowing.
“I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
“I am Elenora, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The name lingered on her lips like a challenge.
"You flatter me, my lady." Her proximity was unsettling—and the way she was looking at me, with the slow assessment of a hunter who already knew what lay beneath my armor, made my skin prickle.
"I don't recall seeing you at the trial today.
" Of course, I wasn't paying attention to who was assembled in the audience, so she could have very well been there, and I just hadn't noticed.
Elenora’s smile curved like the edge of a dagger. “I simply heard of your performance. Everyone has.” She nodded and gave me a knowing smile. "The mysterious knight from the borderlands with unusual magical abilities—the underdog who bested one of the notoriously difficult trials."
I was surprised to hear myself described in such a way. "Am I the underdog?"
Elenora laughed at that, as though I were foolish for asking. "Of course—you’re the smallest of the knights."
"Ah," I answered with a quick nod. I couldn't argue that. "I'm not sure I've done anything to merit such attention."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "In a court starved for novelty, merely surviving the Labyrinth with grace is enough.
" She studied me before giving me the devil's own smile.
"Though I wonder what a young knight with your particular talents hopes to gain here.
Arthur's favor is a treacherous current to navigate. "
"I seek only to serve Logres."
"As do we all, in our fashion." She laughed. "Though 'service' takes many forms, does it not? Some serve openly with sword and shield, others more... discreetly."