CHAPTER FORTY-ONE #2
I turned to the clothing chest next. It opened easily, revealing neatly folded tunics, gambesons, and braies. Undergarments, all modest. The fabric was fine—better than most provincials could afford—but not ostentatious. Practical. Durable. Respectable quality. And small. So very small.
I fought against the dangerous urge that clawed at my chest—the overwhelming compulsion to lift one of those soft tunics to my face, to breathe in the scent that clung to the fabric—always the scent of lavender with something unnameable just beneath it.
Even now, standing here in the stillness of his chamber, I could detect that faint, elusive fragrance that seemed to follow Lioran wherever he went.
It was subtle—not the heavy musk of leather and sweat that permeated most knights' quarters, but something altogether different.
Something that made my pulse quicken in ways I didn't dare examine, couldn't examine because then I was left with questions I couldn't answer—didn't want to answer.
The scent was delicate, almost floral, like morning air touched with lavender or the first hint of spring rain on fresh earth.
It was a fragrance that seemed too refined for a knight, too gentle for someone who wielded sword and shield in Arthur's service.
Each time I'd caught that whisper of it during training or in the Great Hall, it had left me strangely unsettled, as if something fundamental about my understanding of the world had shifted just slightly off its axis.
My hands trembled as I carefully folded the last tunic, forcing myself to maintain the precise arrangement I'd found.
The rational part of my mind—the part trained in logic and duty—insisted this meant nothing.
Men could appreciate fine soaps and could choose to mask the harsh realities of knighthood with more pleasant scents.
Just as men came in all shapes and sizes, there was nothing unusual about a man who just happened to have the proportions of a woman.
There were explanations, reasonable ones, for every detail that seemed out of place.
Still… nothing that explained anything.
No artifacts of northern nobility might explain his relationship with the noble woman who had supported his being here.
No coded correspondence. Actually, nothing written at all.
No tokens of affection between Lioran and another man.
No signs of magic use. Nothing that would reveal what Lioran might be hiding—if he was hiding anything at all.
And yet… I knew there was something.
Because I felt it every time I looked at him. I could feel the secrets eating away at him. I didn't know how because it wasn't as though my magic revealed such things. But I could feel this truth deeply in my bones all the same.
As I replaced the clothing with care, masking any sign of my intrusion, shame crawled up my spine like a living thing—each vertebra burning with the weight of my betrayal.
Invading a fellow knight’s privacy, driven by confusion and dreams I could neither understand nor control—what manner of man had I become? The black armor I wore, the sigil I bore, the ideals I was sworn to uphold—they all felt like mockery now, hollow symbols wrapped around a hypocrite.
Arthur’s face rose unbidden in my mind—those clear, unwavering eyes that always saw too much.
He had shaped me, guided me, trusted me with more than any man save perhaps Merlin himself.
What would he say if he saw me now, rifling through another knight’s belongings like a jealous lover or a common spy?
"This was a mistake," I whispered, already turning toward the door.
Then came the footsteps.
They halted me mid-step, freezing my blood.
Measured. Steady. Not a meandering servant or drunk squire. No, these steps were purposeful.
Panic surged through me like a sudden tide. The window offered only a lethal drop to the cobblestones below. The door, thick and unyielding, stood between me and the hallway—but now also between me and ruin. Because if I were caught—what would my defense be? Nothing, for I didn't have one.
I spun, scanning the room—and then I saw it.
The tapestry.
In three desperate strides, I was behind it, pressing myself flat against the cold stone wall.
The tapestry's heavy wool covered me from head to toe but scratched against my cheek as I tried to make myself as small as possible, every muscle coiled with tension.
The space was cramped and suffocating, the musty scent of old fabric filling my lungs and making me want to sneeze—a disaster I couldn't afford.
The door creaked open with agonizing slowness, each protest of the hinges like thunder in my ears.
From my precarious hiding place, I carefully peeked around the frayed edge of the heavy fabric to see Lioran entering.
The door clicked softly shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the room like a gavel. I barely breathed.
He looked… tired. Shoulders low, his movements slow and weighted. He locked the door, then—quietly, carefully—uttered something beneath his breath. A magical ward. I felt it settle over the room, and with it came a shift in the air—subtle, tingling.
He moved toward the mirror.
From behind the tapestry, I could see only his profile, half-shadowed in the angled light, but it was enough.
Lioran stood still for a long moment, staring at his reflection. Then his shoulders lifted—rolled back in a gesture that felt like surrender. Not weakness. Surrender. Like someone laying down a weapon they’d held too long.
He closed his eyes and held his hands up on either side of him, palms facing the ceiling. Power stirred in the chamber, not violent or sudden but patient and deliberate.
Then he… changed.
It wasn't the dramatic spectacle of court magic—no flash of blinding light or thunderous explosion.
Instead, it was something intimate. A soft unraveling that began at his fingertips and spread like ripples across still water.
The illusion didn't shatter; it simply dissolved, falling away like silk slipping from bare skin.
And standing in his place—no, her place—was a woman.
I could barely believe what my eyes were reporting to my stunned mind.
My heart began to thunder in earnest, each beat echoing the complete shock and confusion that was traveling through me.
I blinked hard, certain I was dreaming or perhaps under some enchantment myself, but the vision before me remained unchanged, undeniably real.
My thoughts scattered, unable to find purchase on anything solid as I struggled to reconcile this impossible truth with everything I thought I knew.
The woman was small, radiant, and unapologetically feminine.
Silver-white hair tumbled down her back in shining waves, freed from whatever spell had bound it.
Her face… Gods above, her face. Delicate and sharp in equal measure—cheekbones catching the light like cut crystal, lips full and slightly parted as though she’d just taken her first breath in days.
And her eyes.
Violet. Bright. Stunning.
Her posture had shifted entirely, with no trace of the stiff masculinity of Lioran. She moved like someone shedding armor not just from her body but from her soul. Fluid, certain. Whole.
A transformation, yes—but not a disguise revealed.
A truth, uncovered.
My chest tightened. I forgot to breathe.
This was no spell of glamour or deception.
This was her.
And everything I thought I knew shattered like glass.
I pressed myself harder against the stone wall, willing my body to still, to vanish into shadow. But it was no use—the truth before me struck like a sword through the ribs.
And then it dawned on me, in all its horrible reality.
The silver-white hair. The violet eyes. The same haunting features Arthur had described with reverent awe more times than I could count.
The mysterious woman who had drawn Excalibur from the stone—who had shattered his certainty, his identity—was standing right here, in this chamber.
Not in some distant, enchanted grove. Not across the sea or hidden in fae glamour.
She had been here all along.
Disguised as Lioran. In Camelot. At my side. Under my command.
A soundless gasp tore through me, my heart pounding so violently I feared she might hear it echoing off the stone walls.
Arthur had dispatched search parties, searched the castle numerous times, and spent sleepless nights haunted by her—a woman he had seen only briefly but whose face he could not forget.
And now I could well understand, because I could not forget it either.
Suddenly, everything made sense. Every strange flicker I’d felt in Lioran’s presence, the magnetic pull between us, the confusion that gnawed at my gut every time our eyes met. I'd never been bewitched. I'd been right. My instincts had seen through the illusion long before my mind allowed it.
He was never a man.
She was never Lioran.
My body had known the truth before my reason did.
She reached up and began to unfasten the clasps at her collar, peeling off the knight’s uniform with slow, deliberate care.
Garments fell away one by one—the padded vest, the linen undershirt, the braies—each piece discarded with unconscious grace until nothing stood between her and the fading light except skin and shadow.
I nearly forgot to breathe.
Her body was not the soft, delicate form idolized in courtly portraits.
No—this was the body of a warrior, forged through years of discipline and trial.
Lean muscle carved along her arms and thighs.
She was strength and beauty intertwined, the divine contradiction of a woman built not to be shielded but to wield power of her own.
Every line, every curve awakened something in me I couldn't name—desire, awe, terror. Not because I feared her, but because something in me recognized her—the same part of me that had been drawn to her from the beginning. And that was when I realized another truth—I’d never wanted Lioran removed from the trials owing to his—to her—diminutive size; that had just been the excuse I fed myself.
No, the truth was that I’d been attracted to her from the beginning, and that attraction had felt so wrong I’d wanted her removed from the trials so I would no longer be tempted.
Because I must have known deep inside me that this was no passing infatuation.
And it had never been about confusion—my body had recognized the truth very early on.
Another horrifying truth was crystallizing before me: that this woman was the very same woman who’d unmade Arthur.
And now—perhaps—she would unmake me.
It was then that I remembered she was standing there, completely nude.
Almost immediately, my male brain began to usurp my logic.
Because she was beautiful—every curve, every line of her body.
Her waist was narrow, and her stomach taut and lean.
My eyes moved up to her breasts, which appeared heavy and round, large for such a slight woman.
My mouth started to water as I imagined taking her nipples, which were as pink as a rose, between my lips and sucking them until they pebbled and grew hard.
The moonlight streaming through the narrow window caressed her skin, highlighting the faint scars that told stories of survival and determination—badges of honor that enhanced her beauty rather than diminished it.
I found myself mesmerized by the contradictions embodied in her form: delicate yet deadly, soft yet unyielding.
I knew I should look away. Every fiber of honor in my body screamed that I should grant her privacy, regardless of her deception.
Yet I remained frozen like a man under a spell, simultaneously sickened by my own voyeurism and unable to tear my gaze from the revelation unfolding before me.
I had to close my eyes for a moment just to gain control of myself, just to try to talk myself into keeping my eyes closed so I could afford her her privacy.
Yet I knew I could not, for I was nowhere near that strong.