CHAPTER FORTY-NINE #2
So why did the thought of her death feel like a fire consuming me from the inside out, like something vital being torn away from me?
Why did my hands shake at the mere possibility of her harm when I'd watched countless others fall without a tremor?
I'd stood unmoved as Arthur ordered executions, carried out his will with steady hands and a clear conscience.
Death was part of duty, sacrifice necessary for the greater good.
But this—this was different. This was wrong in a way that reached deeper than logic, beyond the careful walls I'd built around whatever passed for my heart.
The idea of her white hair stained with blood, of those defiant eyes closing forever, sent something primitive and protective roaring through my veins.
Something that had nothing to do with knightly oaths or royal loyalty.
But why?
I couldn't answer the question, couldn't examine why this one woman had managed to slip past every defense I'd spent decades perfecting.
So I forcefully abandoned it, shoving the thoughts back into the darkness where they belonged, burying them beneath layers of duty and discipline that had never failed me before.
For now, I would wait. Watch. The woman calling herself Sir Lioran didn’t know she’d already been discovered—not fully. And I would use that advantage. If she was dangerous, I’d find out.
And if she wasn’t...
I didn’t let myself finish the thought.
Mordred’s spell shimmered to life above the silver chalice.
I leaned forward without meaning to.
Pale mist curled upward from her hands—her sacrifice drawn out by the enchantment.
It gathered into a glowing vision: a child with unmistakable white hair splashing in a stream, sunlight haloing her like something from a bard’s ballad.
Her laughter echoed faintly through the spell—pure, unguarded, soft.
She was beautiful. Unburdened. Innocent.
And utterly her.
I felt my heart stutter in my chest.
She crouched by the water’s edge, studying something in the current. One hand hovered for balance, and the other reached with the hesitant wonder of childhood. Even here, in memory, she moved like no one else—graceful, precise, instinctively aware of the world around her.
I flicked my gaze toward Arthur, dreading what he might see—what he might remember.
Of course, he would realize the girl in this vision matched the one from his dreams—only younger.
But Arthur didn’t react. Not in any way that suggested recognition.
His expression was still, his eyes narrowed—but he said nothing.
Did nothing. Just studied the vision with the same detached scrutiny he'd given the others.
Around us, murmurs stirred like wind in dry grass.
"Lioran's sister, perhaps..."
"She favors him..."
"Could be a cousin."
They were already building their own explanations.
No one suspected. And crucially—crucially—the girl's eyes in the memory were not visibly violet.
I exhaled slowly, evenly.
For now, her secret remained hers.
But not for long.
As the memory dissolved into pure magical essence—scattering like stardust in the chapel’s still air—I saw Lioran’s shoulders sag, just slightly.
A tremor passed through that deceptively strong frame, so subtle most would have overlooked it.
But I didn’t. The fading light caught the hollow of her throat, the lowered sweep of thick lashes.
In that moment, she looked heartbreakingly vulnerable.
Even in sacrifice, she was beautiful.
Raw. Unmasked. And it struck something in me. My fingers twitched at my side with the irrational urge to reach out, to steady her. To comfort her.
But I did nothing. Could do nothing. We were surrounded.
The intimacy of witnessing such a private moment, carved from someone else's soul, left my chest tight with a pressure I refused to name.
What is wrong with you?! I railed at myself. She could be an enemy! She could be plotting Arthur's downfall—his death even! She could be manipulating you!
The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur. I held my composure—years of court training ensured I could—but my thoughts churned with implications.
If she were discovered, the consequences would ripple through Camelot.
For Arthur, whose search for the white-haired enchantress bordered on obsession.
For me, whose loyalty had never wavered—until now.
And most of all, for Lioran. For the woman standing among us in mortal danger, her existence a blade balanced on the edge of revelation.
When the trial concluded and the candidates began to file out, I couldn’t just let her go.
It wasn't duty that drove me any longer.
It was need.
A suffocating need to be near her. To speak to her. To touch her, even briefly. Even though she appeared to the world as a man, I no longer saw the illusion. I saw only her. The true her.
I followed at a discreet distance, my gaze fixed on the familiar rhythm of her stride, the subtle shift of her shoulders beneath the ceremonial white.
Through the thinning crowd, she turned down one of the private corridors connecting the chapel to the main keep—a passage seldom used except by those wishing to avoid the busier halls.
Perfect.
I quickened my pace.
Whatever happened next would not be by chance.
-LANCE-
I found her halfway down the corridor, moving with purpose but not urgency.
The ancient stones around us seemed to absorb sound, creating a hush that felt almost sacred—separate from the rest of Camelot.
Torches burned at wide intervals, their flames guttering in a persistent draft.
The flickering amber light traced across Lioran’s profile, softening the sharp angles of her disguise.
No matter how carefully she mimicked masculine grace, something delicate still shone through.
In this corridor of whispers and secrets, she didn’t belong to either world—neither fully knight nor woman—but something entirely her own.
I caught up to her and reached for her arm, stopping her in place. She turned quickly, eyes flashing with surprise. A split second later, they clouded with worry.
“Lance,” she said—and the sound of my name on her lips pulled me straight back to her bedchamber and the memory I’d tried, and failed, to forget. So many times.
“The girl in your memory,” I started without preamble, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest. “She looked like someone I’ve seen before.”
Her face froze. Not entirely—but just enough. A catch of breath. A tightening around the eyes.
“Oh?” The question was too casual. But panic glittered in her gaze.
“Yes.” I stepped closer. “She looked like the child version of the woman Arthur described. The woman he has been searching for.” And then it dawned on me—that moment in the Hunt Trial when the Invisible Stalker had taken the guise of the white-haired woman and I'd mistakenly believed she must have been in the forest. I'd gotten it all wrong.
The Invisible Stalker had simply taken on the true identity of Lioran.
"And the woman whom we saw in the Hunt Trial," I added. "The woman who pulled the sword from the stone."
Her mask cracked—only for a second—but I saw it.
The fear. I hadn't expected fear, but confusion or shock, as this should have been the first mention of a woman pulling Excalibur that she'd ever heard—if she wasn't the woman who had pulled the sword herself.
Arthur had told only me the truth about what he'd witnessed that night—there was no way he would have entrusted such information to anyone else, owing to what it represented—another person with a claim to his throne.
And yet… yet there was no surprise in her expression. Only concern. Worry.
"I can't remember what the memory was, Lance."
Of course, I'd already forgotten that she'd sacrificed it. "It was a memory of a young girl playing in the water in the countryside. The young girl had hair as white as snow."
She forced a laugh. “My sister.”
She was lying. I should have turned on my heel. Should have called for Arthur—for the King's Guard. That was the oath I’d sworn: protect the king, no matter the cost.
But instead, I stepped closer still—so close she swallowed hard as she looked up at me.
I wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her, to taste her lips, but I stopped myself.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Whatever secret you're hiding, Lioran... I care for you regardless. More than I should. More than is wise.”
I didn't know why I didn't just come out with the truth—why I didn't tell her I knew she was the white-haired woman. Perhaps I hoped she would admit as much to me instead? That she would trust me enough to tell me.
The words hung between us in the flickering torchlight, heavy and irretrievable. Her breath caught. The shadows danced across her face, blurring the line between illusion and truth. I hadn’t accused her. She hadn’t confessed. But something had shifted, and we both knew it.
"Lance…" My name on her tongue brought me back to the moment I’d watched her on her bed.
I reached out, without thought, lost to the need to feel her, and touched her cheek. The moment my fingertips made contact with her skin, the world seemed to narrow to just this moment—just the two of us—just the electric current sparking between us.
Gods, I was taking such a chance. What if someone were to see us?
But all I could think about was that her skin was too soft for a knight. Too delicate, too feminine. A tremor passed through me at the contact—her breath hitched, my own heart hammering.
Her eyes widened, pupils dilating until the blue of Lioran's disguise was nearly swallowed by black. I watched her pulse flutter at the base of her throat, rapid and erratic. My thumb moved of its own accord, tracing the high curve of her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch despite herself.