CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE #2
And damn him, my traitorous body still responded to his lingering gaze.
Even with the storm of revelation raging inside me, even with the crushing weight of my true lineage pressing down like a boulder threatening to shatter my carefully constructed world, I still felt that familiar warmth rise beneath my skin at the sight of him.
Heat coursed through me despite every rational thought screaming that he was my enemy.
And worse—I felt that same treacherous pull when my eyes inevitably found Lance standing just behind Arthur's shoulder.
The knight's dark gaze was fixed on me, relief replacing the concern that had been there previously.
And yet that wasn't all that appeared in his gaze.
Though his expression was unreadable, there was something hungry, something predatory in the way he watched me.
My pulse quickened under his scrutiny, and I hated myself for the way my body betrayed me, responding to both men even as my mind reeled from everything the Riddle of Blood had revealed.
How could one heart be so torn between the king and his knight? Especially when both of them were my enemies?
I bowed, keeping my movements controlled despite the tremble in my limbs. The trial had changed everything—not just my understanding of myself, but it had changed my entire world. My identity was no longer a mask I wore; it was a fractured thing.
"There are two trials still awaiting you," Arthur said to us all. "But for this night, enjoy the festivities in the Great Hall. And sleep well, knowing each of you is worthy to be here."
Applause broke out then, celebratory and deafening.
Some candidates beamed with pride, while others bore the stunned expressions of their secrets laid bare for all to see.
Little by little, they found their allies and began to share their visions, comparing magical ancestors and personal revelations.
I remained silent, distant, my lips smiling when necessary, my words carefully measured. But inside, I was still spinning.
The ritual had left me drained—physically, emotionally, magically. I could feel the strain of maintaining my Lioran glamour pressing on the edges of my energy, tugging at the seams.
"Congratulations, Lioran."
I recognized the voice before I saw him. That rich, deep baritone that had commanded Arthur's army now softened into something intimate: familiarity. I turned slowly, forcing the corners of my mouth upward into a smile.
"Thank you, Sir Lancelot," I said, using his proper title while in public.
He returned my smile with one of his own, and even exhausted, even furious, he still made my pulse quicken. There was something about him—steadfast and open. And there was something about the way he was looking at me now—as though he wanted to ask me something but wouldn’t. Or couldn't.
I held my mask firmly in place. My lips curved upward into a forced smile. My posture straightened in supposed pride.
But the gap between who I was and who everyone believed me to be had never felt larger, nor more treacherous. And even if I appeared to be full of confidence on the outside, I was reeling on the inside.
"Considering your lineage, you’ve come an incredibly long way. You should be very proud of yourself," Lance continued, his dark eyes locking onto mine with that penetrating gaze that made my insides go to mush.
I forced a smile. It was all I could manage.
If only he knew the truth of my lineage, how different his praise might be. Would his voice still hold warmth? Would his eyes still meet mine with respect—or would they narrow with betrayal?
By nightfall, after the last of the ceremonial wine was poured and the court had retired to its revelry or rest, exhaustion wrapped around me like a leaden cloak. The ache in my bones ran deeper than physical.
Once safely behind the locked door of my chambers, I collapsed onto the edge of my bed with a weight that seemed to come from deep within me.
What had once felt like a shield—this carefully constructed identity of Sir Lioran, this mask of valor—now pressed in on me like a coffin.
The walls of my chambers, which should have offered sanctuary, felt as though they were closing in, suffocating me with the weight of secrets that grew heavier with each passing day.
Every breath felt stolen, every heartbeat a reminder of the fraud I perpetrated simply by existing in this place.
I sat there for a long moment, still and silent as a statue, my hands pressed flat against the coverlet beneath me.
The echoes of celebration faded into memory—the cheers, the toasts, the proud voices proclaiming my achievements—Carlisle's heightened interest in me, Arthur's constant hawkish gazes from across the room, Lance's concerned expression he seemed to be wearing all night.
All of it felt hollow now, like applause for a performance I could never stop giving.
Slowly, I exhaled.
The truth of who I was still rang like a struck bell in my chest. Each breath felt heavier than the last.
I am their daughter. I am their weapon. I am their secret.
And yet, something inside me stirred—restless and raw. A whisper of defiance.
But with that defiance came danger. Not just to me—but to everything I had tried to protect. If Arthur ever discovered who I truly was—what I truly was—there would be no forgiveness. No mercy. No second chance. I doubted there would even be a trial. Just death.
Hopefully, it would be quick.
I leaned back on the mattress, staring up at the darkened ceiling, letting the silence settle around me.
The Riddle of Blood had shown me who I was.
The question now was—what would I do with that truth?
-ARTHUR-
Earlier That Same Day
The last candidate of the Riddle of Blood Trial—Sir Hadrian—passed through the doorway. I watched his secrets spill into the air—an affair with a married woman, debts unpaid, a brother's betrayal avenged with violence. Nothing that disqualified him from service.
"The Riddle of Blood has spoken," Mordred announced, his eyes sweeping the chamber. "Fourteen knights remain. You have proven your blood carries no taint that would dishonor your king or the Round Table." He took a breath. "Two more trials await you."
The candidates bowed as one. Relief washed across several faces. Others maintained their stoic composure, as though they'd never doubted the outcome—of course, Galahad was among them.
As we walked from the Hall of Lineages, I gestured for Mordred to follow me from the ritual chamber. The stone walls swallowed the murmurs of the remaining knights as we moved into the adjacent gallery, away from prying ears.
"A strong showing," Mordred said, his long fingers tracing the silver runes embroidered into his midnight robes. "Though I must confess, Sir Rogeric's connection to the House of Ravencroft surprised me. I hadn't realized his grandmother married into that bloodline."
"The Ravencrofts have always been prolific." I stopped before the narrow window overlooking the training grounds. "What did you make of Kay's results?"
"Predictable. He has always envied you, always believed he should have been king—that is no secret." Mordred's voice carried no judgment, merely observation. "Though his dedication to your service appears genuine enough."
I nodded, my thoughts already drifting from Kay to the knight who had occupied far too much of my attention of late.
"And Lioran?"
Mordred's pause stretched a heartbeat too long. When he spoke, his tone remained measured, but I had known the man long enough to detect the undercurrent of uncertainty.
"An interesting case, Your Majesty."
"Interesting." I turned from the cold stone of the wall to focus on Mordred's even colder expression. "That is rather diplomatic phrasing."
"His blood revealed... very little." Mordred moved to stand beside me, his gaze distant as he, no doubt, recalled the ritual. He met my eyes, the blue one sharp with intellectual curiosity, the black one fathomless.
"Do you read anything into it?"
He cocked his head to the side and then shook it. "It could be as simple as his claims—peasant stock, no notable ancestry to trace. Common blood sometimes appears this way, Sire. No great deeds to anchor the visions. No significant bloodlines to illuminate the path backward."
"Or?"
"Or there is deliberate obscurement." Mordred's thin lips pressed together.
"And? What are your thoughts?"
"I detected no active magic during his portion of the trial. No wards, no glamours. If someone hid his true lineage, they did so with remarkable subtlety."
I thought of Lioran's expression as those memories played out. The shame, the determination, the hunger. All of it rang true. And yet the dragon within me coiled tighter whenever the young man drew near, as though recognizing something I couldn't see.
And what the bloody hell was it? What did the dragon know that I didn't? And why wouldn't it fucking tell me?
"Have your spies discovered anything of interest regarding Lioran?" I asked Mordred. "Anything that would explain the gaps in his story, his quite muddled ancestry?"
"Nothing of immediate concern." Mordred clasped his hands behind his back with that precise, measured gesture that had become as familiar to me as my own breathing.
The silver streak in his dark hair caught the pale light filtering through the chamber's tall windows as he straightened to his full height.
"We located the noblewoman who sponsored his entry into the trials—Dame Yseldra, as he claimed.
She is precisely what one would expect from his description: an obscure northern widow of modest holdings, possessed of enough wealth to sponsor a promising young man but hardly significant enough to warrant deeper scrutiny from the crown's agents. "
Mordred's eyes remained fixed on something in the middle distance as he continued his report.
"Her estate lies in the borderlands between here and Carlisle's territory.
Remote enough to avoid regular oversight, prosperous enough to maintain her charitable patronage.
She keeps to herself, pays her taxes promptly, and by all accounts leads the unremarkable life of a minor noble managing her late husband's legacy. "
"And yet she did not come to court to watch her protégé perform?"
Mordred nodded. "She is of advanced age, Sire, and appears to be rather ill."
"Any connections between Yseldra and Carlisle?"
Mordred shook his head. "None that I could uncover, nor my spies, Majesty."
The Royal Archmage's tone carried that familiar note of clinical detachment, as though he were discussing the weather rather than potential threats to my kingdom.
Yet I had known Mordred long enough to recognize the subtle undercurrents in his carefully modulated voice—the slight hesitation before certain words, the way his fingers twitched almost imperceptibly when he had his own concerns.
"Then there is no word regarding Lioran's family? No connections?"
"None that my people could uncover." Mordred paused. "Though I should note—the north remains... resistant to certain forms of inquiry. Carlisle's influence runs deep in those regions. If someone wished to hide in plain sight, they could hardly choose better territory."
"You suspect Lioran of working with Carlisle?"
"No," he answered quickly. "I suspect nothing.
" Mordred's voice remained infuriatingly neutral.
"But I find the coincidence notable. A talented unknown from the north, arriving precisely when we need knights loyal to the crown.
Carlisle would be a fool not to attempt to place his own candidate among our ranks. "
It was the same argument I had made to myself countless times over the past few weeks, the question that gnawed at me in the quiet hours before dawn when sleep eluded my grasp.
What if Lioran were indeed a plant—one of Carlisle's carefully groomed agents, sent to work his way into my confidence only to undermine me from within?
The possibility should have filled me with cold certainty, should have prompted immediate action to root out the threat.
And yet, despite every logical reason to embrace such suspicions, I found myself unable to believe that theory fully.
A spy might master deception, might learn to project loyalty and courage, but there had been moments in our conversations where I glimpsed something raw and unguarded beneath the surface.
Something that felt too genuine to be mere performance.
The dragon stirred restlessly in my chest, its voice a low rumble of possessive certainty.
Ours, it whispered, as it had begun to do with increasing frequency whenever my thoughts turned to the young knight. Not theirs. Ours.
Strange that the dragon should be possessive toward the young knight.
I looked at Mordred. "Yet you discovered no proof linking Carlisle to Lioran?"
"None."
I nodded. "Continue to keep a close watch on him."
Mordred nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."