CHAPTER TWENTY
-GUIN-
I sat astride Shade inside Thornhallow Forest, the forest that bordered Camelot. Beside me sat the other knights on their mounts, all of us watching the magnificent stag poised on a rocky outcrop before us.
It stood tall and proud, framed by ancient oaks and whispering pines as the late afternoon sunlight highlighted its tawny hide. My fingers tightened around the reins, the leather creaking as Shade shifted beneath me, mirroring the tension in the air.
This wasn’t a trial or test—just a hunt, meant to shake off unease before the next trial, which was rumored to occur soon.
We’d all been on edge for days in anticipation of this upcoming trial: hands too quick to reach for swords.
Laughter too sharp around the fires. Gawain had suggested this outing to channel our unrest into something enjoyable.
The gentle jingle of bridles and quiet snorts of restless horses filled the cathedral-like stillness of the forest as we sat transfixed, staring at the magnificent creature poised before us on its natural throne of weathered stone.
The stag didn't bolt. Instead, it remained perfectly still, watching us with those large, dark eyes—as if it understood something we did not. The stag’s coat gleamed like burnished copper.
Muscles bunched under a velvet coat, while its antlers swept skyward—nature’s crown, more regal than anything forged by man.
For a moment, no one moved. Even the hard-bitten knights around me seemed struck by its dignity.
Then came the sharp twang of a bowstring.
The arrow sliced through the morning air, but Agravaine's aim proved as flawed as his character.
Instead of finding the clean kill zone behind the shoulder, the steel point buried itself deep into the stag's flank—a deliberately cruel placement that spoke more to malice than poor marksmanship.
I'd seen Agravaine shoot before; his accuracy was legendary among the knights when it served his purposes.
The magnificent creature's bellow shattered the forest's silence—a raw, soul-deep sound of betrayal and anguish that seemed to echo from the heart of the ancient woods.
The beast staggered backward, its powerful legs trembling.
The arrow shaft protruded from its tawny hide, dark crimson blood already flowing, first in thin rivulets, then in steadily increasing streams. Each labored breath sent fresh waves of scarlet rolling down its flank, staining the earth with liquid ruby.
“Poor shot, Agravaine,” Gawain said coldly, amber eyes narrowing. “Now the creature suffers.”
Agravaine shrugged. “It’ll tire faster. Makes the chase quicker.”
My stomach turned. Three years in Annwyn had taught me the old ways—Merlin’s ways. Every hunt a contract, every kill clean. The animal’s death honored, not turned into a spectacle. This was nothing more than cruelty dressed as sport.
For a heartbeat, the stag's gaze locked with mine—liquid brown eyes, wide with pain and confusion—before it stumbled downhill and disappeared into the brush.
“After it!” Agravaine barked, thundering past me. The rest charged after him, some intoxicated by the excitement of the chase, others uncertain about their position in this display.
I hesitated only a moment before breaking away from the main hunting party.
Instead of following directly, I guided Shade through a narrow ravine I’d noticed earlier—a shortcut that might intercept the stag's path.
The water magic in my blood sensed a stream ahead, and I had a feeling the stag was headed in the same direction.
I was right.
I found it collapsed by the water’s edge, sides heaving, blood staining the stream. It stirred at my approach, tried to lift its head but slumped back down.
“Shhh,” I whispered, dismounting slowly. “It’s alright.”
My boots sank into the moss-soft earth beside the stream as I drew my hunting knife. The stag watched me as I approached with slow, deliberate steps. Its eyes were eerily calm. No fear. No pleading.
"I'm here to help you," I continued in a soft voice.
Its breath came in ragged pulls, stirring the bloodied water around its hooves. Steam curled from the wound in the cool air. The scent of blood mingled with damp earth and decaying leaves.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, dropping the voice I used for court. There was no need for disguise here. The beast didn’t flinch as I knelt beside it. Maybe it understood. Maybe it recognized the peace I was about to offer.
“This isn’t how it should have ended.”
My hand trembled as I placed the blade to its throat. Beneath my fingers, its warmth pulsed faintly. Its hide was coarse, matted with sweat and blood, but still soft—regal. I rubbed its neck gently, slow circles meant to soothe, not stall.
“You’ll be free soon. No more arrows. No more pain.”
I’d done this before—in Annwyn’s forests, under Merlin’s quiet instruction.
Mercy was sacred. Life and death balanced.
Every ending deserved reverence. But never had I killed a creature so magnificent.
And never to undo someone else’s cruelty.
And that's exactly what this was. Agravaine’s arrow hadn’t aimed to kill.
It had aimed to torment. A manufactured suffering for the sake of sport.
My blade moved swiftly and silently. Flesh parted cleanly. The stag shuddered once, body tensing beneath my palm before going still. I stayed there, hand pressed to its side, waiting as the last flicker of life faded like twilight over Annwyn.
Horns then echoed through the trees—close now. The others were coming.
I turned to the stream and plunged my hands into the cold water. Blood swirled away in delicate red ribbons that vanished between the stones. I watched, transfixed by how easily the water erased death’s trace.
Seconds later, hoofbeats thundered behind me.
I slipped back into Lioran’s mask—shoulders squared, face set—just as the hunting party burst into the clearing.
The dogs arrived first, their braying filling the air as their noses dipped to the ground in search of the stag’s scent.
Their paws churned the earth to mud as they yipped excitedly, circling and whining at the sight of their prize.
Galahad rode in next, reining his mount to a halt.
He scanned the scene, his gaze lingering on the fallen stag and then shifting to me.
He didn’t need to speak; the furrow of his brow conveyed his thoughts well enough—he'd witnessed the hunt turn for the worse and now saw the unnecessary outcome.
It was the first time I'd had any sort of interaction with the knight who was so famous for his virtue, purity, and morals.
“What’s this?” Agravaine yanked his horse to a halt, scowling at the scene before he lifted his gaze to me. “You’ve stolen our quarry, Lioran.”
I sheathed my knife slowly. “The beast was suffering. I ended it cleanly.”
“A clean death,” he sneered. “We might’ve cornered it properly, made sport of it. Instead, you’ve turned a royal hunt into a butcher’s errand.”
Gawain dismounted and crouched beside the stag's body, inspecting the death wound I'd delivered. “Clean stroke. One cut.” He looked up at me then, something like respect in his eyes. “Merciful.”
“Merciful,” Agravaine repeated, dripping contempt. “What’s next? Tears for the fish?”
At that, Kay laughed the loudest.
I met Agravaine's glare without flinching. “Nobility reveals itself in how we handle the defeated, Sir Agravaine.”
"You speak of nobility, and yet you were born in a pasture, were you not?" Agravaine chuckled. "Tell me, do they teach swordplay in the mud where you come from?"
I looked at him. “Your house must be so proud—your insults are as dull as your blade.”
Agravaine's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
"I've seen swine with better lineage," Sir Balan said, stepping close to Agravaine.
Before I could respond, Percival stepped from behind me, which was strange because I hadn't realized he'd followed me. “The meat will feed the castle just the same.”
Agravaine leaned against his saddle, shooting me a look as cold as the steel arrowheads he favored. "A knight dressed in borrowed armor," he muttered, wearing his disdain like a second cloak. Beside him, Kay’s lip curled in a sneer that accentuated his sharp features, as though to pierce me.
"A lineage-less pretender, running with wolves,” Agravaine continued.
I drew in a slow, measured breath through my nose, forcing the cold forest air deep into my lungs while I consciously relaxed the tension that had gathered in my shoulders.
Every instinct screamed at me to lash out, to let my magic surge forward and show this sneering fool exactly what kind of power flowed through these common veins.
But that was exactly what Agravaine wanted—a reaction that would compromise my mission or, at the very least, give him ammunition to use against me later.
Instead, I carefully arranged my features into a mask of calm indifference.
I wouldn't give Agravaine the satisfaction of seeing he'd struck a nerve; I wouldn't let him bait me into saying or doing something I'd regret later.
Instead, I held his pale green gaze steadily, refusing to be the first to look away, even as I felt the weight of every other knight's attention pressing down on me.
"Why don't you speak less and focus on the tasks at hand, Agravaine?" Gawain said, glaring at the man.
"There is a camp to be made and a kill to be skinned," Gareth put in.
Tristan nodded. "We are wasting valuable time."
But Agravaine wasn't finished with me yet. And when he delivered his next strike, he leaned down even further in the saddle, so we were almost at eye level. “No noble house to speak of, no family name worth mentioning. No titles, no renown. I’d wager Lioran can’t even trace his blood back beyond the peasant fields. ”
I looked him dead in the eyes. I'd had enough. “Aye, the peasant fields. That’s where I met your mother, in fact. Lovely woman. Very… accommodating.”