CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
-KAY-
The eastern corridor to the knights’ quarters stretched before me, long and silent.
Cold moonlight pooled through the narrow windows, throwing the passage into soft shadow. I pressed myself into an alcove between two stone columns, the chill of the wall biting through my tunic.
Camelot's stones knew me. They’d heard the whispered strategies Arthur later claimed as his own. They’d absorbed the weight of my footsteps as I paced alone at night, deciphering enemy movements while Arthur received songs and praise for battles I’d all but choreographed.
The tapestries lining the corridor depicted scenes of valor, triumph, and sacrifice—none of them mine.
How many campaigns had I planned in silence while Arthur basked in the glory?
How many victories bore his name when it had been my calculations, my foresight, that ensured their outcome?
Even as boys, the pattern had taken root.
Arthur's laughter carried farther. His mistakes were forgiven faster.
His sword, his smile, his blood—all golden.
And I, ever the moon to his sun, was left to make brilliance out of shadows.
Arthur was marked for legend, while I remained the footnote. The foundation no one praised, the scaffolding discarded once the monument stood tall.
Bitterness coiled in my chest, familiar and acidic. I tasted it now as I had a hundred times before.
Then I heard the telltale sound of footsteps. Someone was coming. The sound pulled me from the abyss of my own thoughts, which was just as well. I did not enjoy the poison my own mind concocted for me.
Lioran. She passed my alcove, unaware of the storm she walked beside.
I stepped forward.
The shadows peeled off me like a second skin.
"A moment of your time, Sir Lioran," I said, letting the title curdle in my mouth like spoiled wine.
She turned.
For a heartbeat, her mask slipped—just enough. Then it was back, composed and sharp.
"Sir Kay," she replied evenly, her voice neither deferent nor defensive. "How may I assist you?"
I gestured toward a nearby alcove, my motion deceptively casual, yet unmistakably commanding. “A private word, if you would. Regarding a matter of… mutual interest.”
Her eyes flicked toward the corridor, calculating. Scanning. For an escape, perhaps? Or simply searching for witnesses? She hesitated—a half-breath too long—then nodded. I started forward, and she followed.
The stone enclave swallowed us, its walls narrow and close. Too intimate for comfort. Ideal for a shared secret.
I didn’t waste time. “I know what you are, girl.” My voice was low and cutting, the kind of whisper that slips beneath armor unnoticed until the bleeding starts.
"I don't," she started, but I shook my head, interrupting her.
“Your disguise may fool the others, but not me. I see weaknesses like other men see faces.”
Her composure faltered for the briefest instant. Not a flinch, but a ripple. The slight widening of her eyes. A shift in her stance—half an inch backward. A warrior’s instinct trying to calculate distance to her door, to escape. It was all the confirmation I needed.
Torchlight licked the alcove walls, throwing flickering shadows across the illusion she wore.
Too perfect. Too symmetrical. Her jaw, her cheekbones—crafted rather than born.
The magic was masterful, but even the most flawless illusions fracture under scrutiny.
I'd always seen the cracks others missed.
“I… have no idea what you could possibly mean by that, Sir Kay,” she said finally, her voice steady—but her pulse betrayed her, fluttering wildly at the hollow of her throat.
“You know exactly what I mean." My tone was colder now. I leaned in. My shadow fell over her, consuming half her face. “The others see what they expect. I don’t. I see the way your fingers hold a blade, the way your hips betray you when your guard is down. I see the weight of a body unused to armor. The calluses that should be thicker. You hide it well—but not well enough.”
She said nothing. But her silence tasted like truth. After another two heartbeats: "That is ridiculous."
My smile curled, sharp and slow. “Do you remember that day we sparred? The day I drew your blood?” I didn’t wait for her to answer. “I had it tested. Magically. The results were very… enlightening.”
She tensed. The muscles in her back, just beneath the false bulk of her shoulders, drew taut.
“Your blood said you were female. And need I tell you, blood doesn’t lie.
Even when people do.” I dropped my voice to a whisper.
Her instincts forced her to lean in, and I let the moment stretch between us, savoring the upper hand I now held over her.
“And impersonating someone you’re not? Embedding yourself inside the king’s inner circle under a false identity?
That’s not just deception, my lady." I smiled. "That’s treason.”
The word dropped like a stone in still water. And I saw it—how her throat tightened. How her lips parted slightly before pressing together again in that subtle, infuriating way that screamed restraint.
“You know what they do to traitors in Camelot?” I continued, close enough now to smell her fear. “Heads roll. Sometimes slowly.”
Her jaw tightened. Her fists clenched at her sides. But she didn’t deny it. Not this time.
“Your weakness isn’t that you’re a woman. It’s that you’re not even who you pretend to be beneath that glamour. You wear a lie on your skin, and another beneath it. The question is—how many layers down do I have to go before I find the truth?”
Her eyes snapped to mine, gleaming with something dangerous.
“I don’t understand your meaning.”
I smiled wider. "I've been investigating your supposed background," I pressed forward, relentless as a hunting hound. "There exists no record of a Sir Lioran from the North. No family history, no previous service, no witnesses to your supposed training."
"I come from humble—"
"—save the farce for someone who believes it. I do not." I let the silence stretch between us, heavy with implication. "You're not just a woman posing as a man—you’re a spy. The question is, for whom?"
The torchlight threw dramatic shadows across her features, half her face in darkness, half illuminated. I didn't wait for her response, knowing denial would be her first, predictable defense.
"You have two choices," I continued, my voice flat and final as a judge pronouncing sentence. "Deny it, and I go directly to Arthur. Or..."
I didn't finish my statement, allowing her to reach her own conclusions, which were liable to be worse than any I could paint for her.
"What do you want?" The question escaped her lips like a confession, confirming her guilt more effectively than any admission ever could.
Victory tasted sweet on my tongue as I smiled. "For now, I want access."
"Access to what?"
"To what lies beneath these elaborate illusions," I answered as I looked her up and down. "I've always wondered what it would be like to bed a witch."
Revulsion flashed across her features before being quickly suppressed, but I had seen it, cataloged it, and filed it away for future use.
"I am not a witch."
I leaned in closer once more. "You are whatever I tell you you are." She glared at me as I pulled back and smiled, loving that I had her right where I wanted her. "Those are my conditions for now. Undoubtedly, they will change."
"And if I refuse?" Her voice held unexpected steadiness—either courage or desperation, though I suspected the latter.
"Then Arthur will know exactly what manner of creature has infiltrated his precious trials.
" I leaned in closer once more, deliberately invading her personal space, using my size and proximity as another weapon in my arsenal.
"Imagine his reaction—not only to discovering a woman masquerading as a knight, but a woman spy, or perhaps you are an assassin? "
"I am neither."
"You may not be aware, but he has grown increasingly paranoid these past years.
The Arthur who pulled the sword from the stone might have shown you some level of mercy, but this Arthur?
" I let out a low, humorless laugh as I shook my head again.
"This Arthur would make a public spectacle of your execution. "
Her silence hung between us, heavy with desperate calculations.
I could almost hear the frantic beating of her heart, the pulse of a trapped animal considering whether to submit or strike.
I didn't give her time to do either. Instead, I outlined my terms with the cold efficiency of a merchant negotiating a contract:
"You will come to my chambers tomorrow evening, present yourself in your true form, and submit to my desires. In exchange, your secret will remain locked within my discretion."
"Have you told—"
"—I have told no one… yet. Your secret is currently safe.
What choices you make will decide whether it remains that way.
" I took a breath. "And don't think of trying to murder or enchant me.
I've already written a sealed letter detailing the proof of my suspicions, to be delivered to Arthur should anything happen to me. "
The precaution was elementary—I never entered dangerous situations without multiple contingencies prepared. Unlike Arthur, who relied on strength and reputation like a warrior's shield and sword, my power derived from preparation and information.
This woman, whoever she was, was intelligent enough to recognize this as no empty threat.
Fear flashed in her eyes, real and uncontrolled, and my magical sight revealed the deeper truth with perfect clarity.
Her greatest weakness wasn't physical vulnerability—it was the desperate need to maintain her place in Camelot, to continue whatever mission had brought her here.
That need outweighed even her own personal safety, making her utterly predictable.