CHAPTER TWENTY #2
The laugh started somewhere just beyond Gawain, a soft chuckle that quickly snowballed into a chorus of snickers and guffaws from the other knights.
Gareth snorted into his gauntlet, trying to stifle the noise, as Percival guffawed shamelessly.
Even Kay allowed a flicker of amusement to tug at his lips, though his glare promised it would be short-lived.
Agravaine’s face turned a mottled shade of red, anger boiling beneath his skin. He tightened his grip on the reins, the leather creaking ominously. His voice cut through the laughter, chilling in its warning. "Watch your words, filthy commoner."
I kept my expression neutral, even as I felt the heat rising in my chest. Shade shifted beside me, her understanding gaze grounding me amidst the provocation.
Gawain’s eyes darted between us, heavy with unspoken caution. Percival remained silent, his stance unwavering but his presence comforting. Gareth cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.
“Seems your origins are even humbler than your skills, Lioran,” Kay said.
A smirk played at Agravaine's lips. "I hope you find comfort in obscurity, for it's all that awaits."
Before I could summon a retort, Lancelot encouraged his black steed forward until Nero was side by side with Gawain. Then he dismounted and stepped right in front of me, his broad shoulders shadowing Agravaine and Kay. “Enough.”
Agravaine opened his mouth, but Lancelot silenced him with a glare that could cut through steel itself. “Nobility isn’t bound by bloodlines,” he spat the words at Agravaine. "As knights, honor compels more than lineage.”
The measured weight of his words settled over the clearing, drawing quiet respect from some—like Percival, Galahad, Tristan, Gawain, and Gareth—and uneasy acknowledgment from the rest.
Agravaine gave me another glare. “Perhaps next time, Lioran will remember his place in the order of things.”
I watched as anger stiffened Lancelot's entire frame, every muscle in his broad shoulders coiling.
The enormous knight took a deliberate step forward.
Despite Agravaine remaining seated high atop his destrier, Lancelot's commanding presence somehow made the mounted man appear diminished—as if the sheer force of Lancelot's kindled fury could reduce even an armed cavalier to nothing more than a cowering child.
I moved to the side slightly so I could get a better look and noticed how Lancelot's dark eyes blazed with a cold fire that promised swift and brutal retribution.
Even from my position beside Shade, I could feel the dangerous energy radiating from Arthur's champion, a barely leashed predator sizing up prey that had dared to overstep its bounds.
"Were you wise, Agravaine, you'd silence your fucking tongue."
At that, Percival looked at me with eyes wide in obvious shock, and I returned the expression.
Then Lancelot glanced at Kay. "And you, Kay, do you have anything more you'd like to say?"
"No," he replied, lifting his palms in surrender—something I was certain infuriated him, because I didn't imagine Kay was a man who enjoyed being put in his place.
No one made a sound. The silence stretched taut until Lancelot spoke again, spearing each of us with his perturbed expression. "The hunt ends with a kill. Make camp. We won’t reach Camelot before dark, and I do not want to risk the horses stumbling.”
-GUIN-
The thought of maintaining my Lioran disguise through the night settled like lead in my stomach.
Merlin's warnings echoed through my mind—warnings about keeping the disguise too long, about the magic weaving itself too deep. Ten hours at a stretch was my limit before the illusion began to fray at the edges, before it started feeling less like a mask and more like skin.
And given that I'd played the part of Lioran all day, a full night in camp would push that boundary well past safety.
I could already feel the strain building behind my eyes, a dull pressure that would only worsen as the hours stretched on.
What if the spell warped? What if I woke with Lioran's strong jaw permanently grafted onto my features, or his broader shoulders locked in place while everything else shifted back?
Half-man, half-woman. A grotesque fusion that would expose me faster than any bloodwork Kay might attempt.
Tristan, who was far ahead, called out about discovering a clearing perfect for establishing our camp. The remaining knights answered with eager agreement.
I swallowed hard and urged Shade forward, already calculating how little sleep I could manage while stealing moments to let my disguise slip, just enough to keep from losing myself entirely.
The clearing opened before us, ringed by ancient oaks. Agravaine dismounted with the practiced ease of a man who had made camp in worse places, already barking orders to his squire—a gangly boy named Willem who moved nervously. Considering his master's temperament, I couldn't fault him.
I slid from Shade's back, my thighs protesting from the long ride.
Behind us, the packhorse train emerged from the trees, laden with canvas bundles and iron cookware that clanged with each plodding step.
Two hunting dogs loped alongside them, tongues lolling, already nosing through the underbrush for game trails.
When he struggled with it, I moved to help Willem wrestle a rolled canvas from one of the packhorses.
The boy shot me a grateful look as we dragged it to the designated spot.
Around us, servants materialized from the group—three men and a woman.
They worked with the silent synchronization of people who had done this countless times, driving stakes into earth still soft from recent rain.
With Percival and the Orkney brothers' help, the largest tents went up first, positioned at the clearing's center. Numerous smaller ones followed, one for each knight, then bedrolls for the servants near the fire pit taking shape from gathered stones.
One of the dogs returned with a hare clamped in its jaws, tail wagging with pride. A grizzled servant took it without comment, already reaching for a skinning knife tucked in his belt.
"Sir Lioran knows how to pitch a proper tent, I see," Agravaine remarked from behind me.
I drove another stake home, not turning. "One learns quickly when the alternative is sleeping under the rain."
As for Agravaine's barbed remarks, I’d deliberately shoved them into the darkest corners of my mind where they belonged.
Those words—designed to draw blood—had found their marks, for whether I was Lioran or I was Guinevere, I was still low-born.
And despite my best efforts to banish all thoughts of the earlier confrontation, one moment kept resurfacing with stubborn persistence: Lancelot stepping forward, his voice cutting through their mockery, defending me when he had no obligation to do so.
The way he’d positioned himself slightly in front of me was a subtle but unmistakable shield. His presence had instantly shifted the dynamic, reminding everyone present exactly who commanded respect in Arthur’s court.
That single act of unexpected involvement haunted me more than any insult could have.
The memory of it lingered like an echo, replaying itself with maddening frequency despite my efforts to focus on the present task.
Arthur's most feared knight—a man whose reputation preceded him into every room, whose presence commanded instant deference—had chosen to shield me from mockery without hesitation or calculation.
It wasn't gratitude that churned in my chest—gratitude would have been simpler, cleaner.
This was something different, something I'd never felt before: the treacherous warmth of feeling protected, of mattering enough to someone that they would risk their own standing to defend mine.
And, of course, I knew Lioran didn't matter to Lancelot.
Were I disqualified from the Trials tomorrow, he would not bat an eye.
We were nothing to one another, and I understood that.
Yet his gesture of protection struck me all the same.
The knights fell into their usual patterns: Agravaine and Kay brooding, Lancelot at the center of the clearing, commanding everyone’s attention and respect, and younger squires gathering around older warriors, eager for their tales of war. I kept my distance, as always.
Dusk filtered through the trees as Gareth and Gawain took it upon themselves to process the stag.
Gareth excised the heart, and the dogs circled closer, drawn by the scent of warm blood, but kept at bay by Gawain’s low growl.
Then the hide came free, revealing muscle and sinew beneath.
Soon sinew bled away from bone, each section neatly severed.
Once the animal had been butchered, they began laying cuts of meat over the fire.
Soon the clearing filled with the scent of roasting venison and wood smoke.
The mood shifted. Wineskins passed from hand to hand.
Laughter rose. Stories grew louder, wilder.
And I watched it all from the edge of the firelight, nursing my own cup of ale while remaining carefully positioned in the shadows.
The amber glow painted faces in shifting light and darkness, transforming familiar features into something almost mythical.
Men who had seemed ordinary in daylight now appeared as heroes from ancient tales, their scars catching the firelight like badges of honor.