CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT #2
Arthur stepped forward. There was something in his expression I'd never seen before: not sternness or command, but gravity—as though this trial carried weight even for him—as though he understood the sacrifice he was asking of us.
“A knight who serves at my table must place Logres above himself. Loyalty to the realm must outweigh even the fiercest personal bonds.”
His gaze passed over each of us, stopping on no one—and yet, somehow, I felt it pause on me.
A silver bowl rested at the altar, gleaming where the stained glass caught it. Its surface seemed to ripple faintly, as if lit from within, as if it hungered.
“Each candidate will approach alone,” Mordred said. “But the memory you surrender will be witnessed by all.”
Gareth was the first to step forward.
I watched his broad shoulders tense as he approached Mordred and Arthur. He placed his hands on either side of the silver bowl, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. His jaw worked silently as he closed his eyes, reaching inward—searching for a memory he could bear to lose.
Mordred’s spell activated as soon as Gareth spoke the incantation, his voice low but steady:
“Veil of shadows, bind and unmake. From this chalice, a grim choice I take. Memory bright, now dimmed and gray— Let joy be lost, and fade away.”
Immediately, a soft blue light rose like smoke from the bowl, twisting and curling in hypnotic spirals. The vapor coalesced into a luminous image that hovered above the altar for all to see.
A young boy stood in a sun-dappled clearing, no more than twelve. Auburn hair caught the light, and even in youth, his handsome features were unmistakably Gareth’s: the determined chin, the defiant tilt of his head.
Beside him stood a tall, imposing man—his father, no doubt. The resemblance between them was undeniable: the same proud stance, the same piercing eyes that measured the world like a battlefield.
In the memory, golden light danced between the boy’s trembling hands—fire magic, raw and new, flaring for the very first time. Embers of fire spun between his fingers like captured stars. It was a moment of wonder, trembling with meaning.
The father's weathered face—usually stern and unyielding—was lit with unmistakable pride. His eyes shone, not with command or instruction, but with something softer: approval, awe, love.
I could feel the weight of the moment: a son’s triumph, a father’s acceptance, the birth of a legacy.
Gareth stared at the image in silence, his fingers clenched around the edge of the bowl. The chapel seemed to hold its breath. His younger self’s face was alight with joy. His father’s rare smile lingered like a blessing. The golden magic pulsed between their hands.
And still, he didn't look away.
There was a war raging behind his eyes—a reckoning of cost and consequence. What would it mean to forget this memory that was obviously sacred to him? To lose the ability to recall the first time he'd made his father proud?
Finally, with a shuddering breath that seemed torn from the depths of him, Gareth nodded.
“It is decided,” he whispered, barely audible.
The memory began to unravel.
It dissolved at the edges first, like leaves caught in a rising wind. The boy’s joy, the father’s pride, the golden fire—each fragment broke apart and rose into the air as pure magical essence. A brilliant corona burst outward, illuminating every corner of the ancient chapel.
The stained glass windows caught fire with color. Reds, golds, and blues flared in brilliant patterns across our robes, our faces, the cold stone beneath our feet.
And then, abruptly, darkness.
When the light died, tears welled in Gareth’s eyes, glimmering.
His broad shoulders remained squared, his chin lifted in defiance of his own grief.
Though his expression remained stoic—a knight’s mask firmly in place—the hand that dropped from the chalice curled into a fist at his side, as if trying to grasp something that had already slipped away forever.
I pressed my lips together until they ached.
The truth of what I was witnessing settled like cold stone in my stomach.
These sacrifices weren’t symbolic gestures or temporary surrenders—they were permanent, irrevocable losses carved from the essence of each knight.
Whatever was given in this ancient chapel, beneath the watchful eyes of the saints and the sorcerers in the glass, would be truly lost—leaving behind only the hollow ache where something cherished had once been.
I saw it in Gareth’s rigid posture and in the way his eyes bemoaned an absence he was already beginning to feel.
Next came Percival.
His gentle face remained serene despite what he’d just witnessed. As he stepped forward, there was a peculiar grace in the way he moved—light, precise, almost reverent—belied by the slender frame that made others underestimate him.
The spell activated the moment his fingers touched the chalice.
A soft golden light pulsed above the bowl, warm and inviting like late-summer sunshine.
The memory it embodied shimmered with healing energy, suffused with love and comfort so tangible it brought tears to my eyes.
Someone had been saved in that moment—of that I was certain—the sacrifice was clear.
This wasn’t just magic—this was hope, offered up willingly.
The golden light began to break apart, drifting into the air like dandelion seeds on a breeze. Percival flinched—only slightly, just a tightening around the eyes—but I saw it. I knew his expressions well enough by now to recognize what he was trying to hide.
He had given something precious—possibly the most important memory he had. And I ached for him. But I couldn't ache for him for long because, before I knew it, it was my turn.
The summons didn’t come aloud—it didn’t need to.
The weight of it was already pressing on my shoulders as I stepped forward.
Each footfall felt like moving through deep water, slow and resistant, the current of dread pulling at my limbs.
The marble floor beneath my boots seemed to stretch endlessly, the distance between myself and the silver chalice expanding with each of my thunderous heartbeats.
Still, I had to appear confident. I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and maintained the steady stride of someone unafraid.
All eyes were on me, watching for hesitation, for weakness—for anything that might mark me as unworthy.
I could feel Kay's beady eyes drilling into me with hatred. I refused to look at him.
Instead, I focused on the trial ahead, on what memory I could give.
It had to be meaningful—enough to appear to be a true sacrifice, enough to evoke emotion on my face—but not so intimate that it risked exposing my identity.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: to succeed in this trial of honesty, I had to execute a very delicate deception.
My fingers twitched, trembling faintly at my sides. I curled them into fists to still the motion, to silence my body before it could betray my heart.
The silver chalice felt warm beneath my palms—surprisingly so.
Mordred’s spell activated the moment I touched it, and I felt the magic slide into my mind like a silk-threaded hook, searching—not for what I offered, but for what I treasured most.
Panic coiled in my chest.
I'd believed each knight chose which memory to surrender, some curated offering meant to balance authenticity with secrecy. But now I understood: I didn't choose—the spell chose. And for one terrible heartbeat, I feared it would strip bare everything—my connection to Merlin, my mother’s bloodline, my meeting with Morgan, or worse, reveal the web of lies I’d so carefully spun into the shape of a man named Lioran.
But it didn’t.
Instead, pale blue mist rose from my hands and coalesced into an image so gentle, so unguarded, that my chest tightened with something like grief.
A little girl with white-blonde hair played beside a stream near my adoptive parents’ dairy farm.
Bare feet splashed in the shallows, sending droplets glittering like diamonds through the amber afternoon light.
Her simple, homespun dress was hiked up and tucked into her belt to keep it dry, though damp patches revealed her earlier failed attempts.
She laughed—freely, joyously—as she chased minnows with cupped hands. Her eyes—my eyes—sparkled with a delight so unfiltered it made my throat tighten. This was a version of me untouched by magic, untouched by fear, unaware that her world would soon fracture.
This child had no idea that a storm brewed within her, that one day, on her twentieth year, her magic would escape in an uncontrollable surge and bring ruin to everything and everyone she loved.
She didn't yet know about the whispers that would haunt her or the masks she’d learn to wear to survive in a kingdom that punished girls like her.
The memory was precious to me precisely because it was whole. It held no shame, no secret, no sorrow. It was one of the last perfect days—just a girl playing in the sunshine, beloved and safe, her biggest concern being whether she’d return home in time for supper.
I could almost smell the sweet grass lining the banks, the faint tang of cowhide from the farm beyond.
I could almost feel the soft weight of a breeze stirring my hair and hear the chirr of insects overhead.
I hadn't thought of this day in years, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to keep it, to cherish it.
But that was not the trial.
Behind me, I could feel the gaze of Arthur, of Mordred, of my fellow candidates—all watching, all waiting.
I spared a single glance toward the image, momentarily anxious someone might recognize the girl’s pale hair.
But I reminded myself: Sir Lioran bore similar coloring.
They’d assume this was a sister, a cousin, a child dear to me.
Nothing more, or so I hoped. Or perhaps the Moonshard would camouflage this memory entirely.