CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
-LANCE-
"This is madness," I muttered, flinging aside my twisted bedsheets and rising to splash cold water onto my face from the basin near the bed.
My chambers—spacious and befitting Arthur's First Knight—felt suddenly oppressive, as though the walls conspired to trap me in thoughts I could no longer outrun. Outside, the castle slept beneath the hush of the predawn hour, cloaking my turmoil in unwanted solitude.
Since the Hunt Trial, I had not known peace.
My mind returned to Lioran with obsessive regularity, his presence haunting me like a wound that refused to scab over.
I couldn’t explain it—this infernal pull, like something lodged beneath my skin, something I could no longer ignore.
No battlefield cry had ever echoed louder in my ears than the simple truth he’d confessed: he had a secret.
I’d claimed I didn’t want to know it. I said it would be better left unsaid.
But that was a lie. A coward’s answer, born of fear.
Fear of what he might admit—that he… desired men. That he might only desire men. And more—that he desired me.
The thought had returned to me—indeed, it had never left my mind, threading through my thoughts like poison.
I’d lain awake, playing out conversation after conversation, imagining the truths he might keep tucked away behind that careful, guarded expression.
Each imagined confession stirred something in me I didn’t understand—something that both repelled and drew me in.
I'd been terrified that his truth would be revealed in the Riddle of Blood Trial.
And that he would suffer for it. How he'd escaped the trial without that secret laid bare, I did not know.
But I had to admit I was grateful because the thought of what would have awaited him if it had been brought to light—well, it was too much to bear.
Now, though, I had to know his secret, his truth.
Why I needed to know this, I couldn’t say. Perhaps there was a part of me that believed if Lioran was drawn only to men, then there must be some magic at work where I was concerned—that he had bewitched me somehow.
Because the alternative…
The alternative was unthinkable.
I, who had only ever craved women and had built a life around discipline and control, could not explain why a soft-voiced, small-framed knight now lingered in the corners of my mind like a song I couldn’t forget.
The idea that he—of all people—had somehow reached through the steel and ceremony of who I was and touched something raw unsettled me more than any battlefield ever had.
I'd fought sorcerers. I'd faced monsters, curses, and the dark unknown.
But this—this quiet, gnawing confusion—was the thing that could unmake me.
And I couldn't endure it any longer.
By midday, I had gone through the motions of duty with all the clarity of a man sleepwalking—overseeing drills with the King's Guard, reviewing formations, and sitting stone-faced through a council meeting I couldn’t recall. My mind was elsewhere, spinning the same treacherous orbit.
Finally, a cold resolve took shape in my chest.
I would search Lioran’s quarters.
When he was occupied elsewhere—training perhaps, or tending to his horse—I would slip in, look for something, anything that might explain the secret he kept so tightly bound: a letter, a token, a symbol.
Something that would cast light on this secret he harbored, which I was convinced would lead me to the reason why I could not stop thinking about him.
The plan sat like lead in my gut.
It was a violation of the knight’s code, a betrayal of the trust we swore to uphold. But I told myself it was necessary, that I could no longer serve Arthur effectively while this… this distraction ruled my every waking moment.
If I found something, I could take whatever action it required. Then perhaps my thoughts would finally quiet. Then perhaps I could bury this obsession and return to the man I had always been.
And if I found nothing?
I couldn't think about what that might mean.
I need certainty, I told myself, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. One way or another.
The opportunity came that afternoon like a gift from the gods—or a trap set by fate.
I was passing the training yard when I heard Percival’s voice rising above the clatter of practice swords, cheerfully challenging Lioran to spar.
Such a session would last at least an hour—longer, given Percival’s boundless enthusiasm and maddening tendency to overanalyze every move like a scholar dissecting a poem.
The point was: it would give me more than enough time.
Arthur remained entangled in council meetings regarding the latest northern border disputes, and the servants were still preparing supper in the lower halls. The corridor leading to the knights' quarters would be temporarily deserted. The timing could not have been more perfect.
From the shadow of a nearby archway, I watched as Lioran nodded, following Percival toward the far end of the training yard. Their voices trailed off into the distance, muffled by laughter and the clink of steel.
My chest tightened with a strange cocktail of guilt and anticipation.
I waited. Counted thirty heartbeats. Then I moved.
I strode through Camelot’s stone arteries with confidence.
No one questioned my presence—I was Arthur’s First Knight, the man entrusted with more authority than most of the High Council.
My steps echoed with memory. These halls had shaped me as surely as sword and shield, their shadows having borne witness to every transformation I’d endured—from ward to warrior to legend.
There wasn’t a corner of this keep I hadn’t explored, a door I couldn’t unlock, a passage I hadn’t once slipped through in boyhood daring. The castle and I knew each other too well for secrets.
Lioran's quarters lay in the eastern wing, where the candidates of the Shadow Trials were housed—a deliberate placement that kept them separate yet close enough for observation.
The corridor stretched before me, cool and hushed, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow above.
Shafts of late afternoon light streamed through the narrow arched windows that punctuated the outer wall at regular intervals, each beam cutting through the dimness to gild the ancient stone in burnished gold.
Dust motes danced lazily in the illuminated air, the only movement in the stillness.
I paused at the intersection where this hallway met the main thoroughfare, my back pressed firmly against the cold stone wall.
The rough texture of the blocks caught at the fabric of my tunic as I held myself motionless, every sense heightened.
My eyes swept the length of both passages, scanning methodically for any visitors who might complicate my mission.
A lone servant appeared at the far end of the corridor, her arms laden with fresh linens that she clutched protectively against her chest. Her eyes remained fixed straight ahead, focused on her destination with the single-minded determination of someone who had learned that curiosity in these halls could be dangerous.
She disappeared around the corner without so much as a glance in my direction, her soft footsteps fading into the ambient silence.
Good.
When I was certain I was alone, I approached the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor.
The iron handle was worn smooth by countless hands, and the wood itself bore the patina of age—dark, solid, and reassuring in its permanence.
My fingers moved deliberately to the leather pouch at my belt, drawing out a slender roll of metal picks that caught the dying afternoon light.
I'd borrowed these from the castle locksmith earlier that morning, spinning him an elaborate tale about a jammed chest in my chambers that contained important documents for the trials.
The old man had barely looked up from his anvil, his weathered face creased with the kind of distraction that spoke of a mind wholly absorbed in his craft.
He'd waved me off with implicit trust, muttering something about temperamental locks and the damp affecting the mechanisms.
Arthur's First Knight needs tools? Then he gets them, no questions asked.
The lock itself was rudimentary—a simple mechanism meant for privacy rather than true defense against determined intrusion. My fingers worked efficiently, quickly feeling for the subtle resistance of each tumbler as I guided the picks into place.
One by one, the tumblers clicked into alignment, each sound somehow both loud in my ears and utterly quiet in the stone corridor beyond.
My heart hammered as I worked, extremely aware of every small noise—the whisper of fabric as I shifted position, the soft scrape of metal against metal, even my own carefully controlled breathing.
Finally, the last pin fell into place with a satisfying click, and I felt the mechanism give way beneath my touch. The handle turned smoothly, well-oiled hinges moving without so much as a whisper of protest.
I slipped inside, my pulse thundering in my ears.
The door closed behind me with a soft thunk, and the quiet that settled around me was immediate and absolute.
The room was modest, smaller than my own, yet neat and thoughtfully arranged.
A narrow bed stood in one corner, opposite a writing table and a washbasin with a mirror.
A wooden chest sat at the foot of the bed.
A single tapestry covered the wall—the kind meant less to decorate than to hide the damp chill of stone.
I moved carefully, eyes flicking across every surface. No personal sigils, no family crest, nothing of a personal nature. Spartan. Clean. Just like Lioran himself.
I started at the table.
Quills, ink, fresh parchment. A copy of The Knight’s Codex, just like every other candidate received at the start of the trials. Nothing more. No letters. No journals. No folded messages scrawled with secret confessions. Not even a personal note.