CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
-GUIN-
The morning was still young when a knock on my chamber door shook me out of my thoughts.
I'd just finished securing the final buckles of Lioran's leather jerkin when I heard the sound—three measured raps that seemed to echo through my chamber like a death knell.
Moving swiftly to the heavy wooden door, I pulled it open to reveal a young page standing in the corridor beyond.
He bowed his head respectfully, his movements quick as befitted someone accustomed to delivering correspondence.
Without a word, he extended a folded piece of parchment toward me, the cream-colored paper bearing the unmistakable crimson wax seal of Lance's personal emblem.
My heart lurched at the sight of it, a mixture of anticipation and dread coursing through me as I accepted the letter with hands that trembled slightly despite my best efforts to maintain my composure.
Once alone, I tore the envelope apart hastily, desperate for the words within, hoping they might offer some antidote to my growing panic. Lance's handwriting sprawled across the page, each curve and line laced with urgency.
Guin, Arthur and Mordred are moving forward with the final trial.
Mordred and Arthur plan to start the Shadow Trial today with no warning.
You need to be ready. The challenge is unlike the others; each knight faces his own dark reflection—those parts of himself that are hidden in lies and secrets.
It's not enough to defeat the shadow; you must come to terms with the aspects it reveals.
Needless to say, everything will be laid bare in front of Arthur.
I paused, absorbing the gravity of his words, feeling their weight settle over my mind as my heart began to race in earnest.
Your disguise has held so far, but I worry that facing your shadow self might reveal too much. I'm trying to devise a plan that keeps you safe. Just give me some time and trust me. I will find a way around this for you.
L.
PS: Burn this letter.
I turned the page over, as if hoping for an answer penned on its back, but the revelation was stark: in a matter of hours, I would have to confront my shadow self, and I'd have to do so in front of Arthur.
My fingers trembled as I brought the letter to the hearth of the fireplace, where embers from the earlier fire continued to burn.
I leaned down, tossed the letter onto the remains of the log, and blew on the embers until a flame sprang forth.
The flames grew quickly, licking at the corners of the letter, consuming Lance's message until only ash remained.
The tension shifted inside me as I paced the room, my mind calculating avenues of survival amidst all the uncertainties.
I could wait for Lance to come up with some idea that might help me, or I could take action on my own.
I had to admit, the latter option appealed to me more.
I didn't want to involve Lance in my tangled web any more than I already had.
As for the Shadow Trial, I didn't fully understand what it would entail, but that didn't matter.
Like the Riddle of Blood, I didn't feel prepared.
Yes, I still had Merlin's Obscura and, more specifically, the Draught of Shifting Sight and the Ember of Forgetting—both of which were designed to hide my truths from prying eyes. But would it be enough?
I gazed out the window, Camelot's walls rising imperiously against the horizon.
What was I going to do? How was I going to face this trial?
Morgan.
My thoughts turned to her almost immediately.
In the twisted game of alliances, she had emerged as my solitary beacon.
Despite not fully trusting her, and knowing that there was definitely something she wanted from me, she was the only one I could turn to.
She was clever and resourceful in ways that even Merlin had underestimated.
If anyone could navigate the treacherous waters ahead, it was her.
The Caliope had been a miraculous safeguard during the Riddle of Blood Trial, shielding the depths of my true identity from Arthur’s prying eyes.
It was proof enough that Morgan possessed ways to manipulate the truth.
Perhaps she had another potion, an elixir to cloak my soul during the Shadow Trial.
Or maybe a ritual—something powerful enough to mask whatever revelations my shadow self might unveil.
I was worried Merlin's charms wouldn't be enough.
Not in this last trial, which was undoubtedly going to be the most difficult.
I couldn't wait for Lance to conjure up a plan. Every moment lost was a danger, and Morgan’s guidance could mean the difference between exposure and survival. My determination solidified as I slipped from my chamber, the door whispering shut behind me.
The halls of Camelot stretched what felt like miles, and I walked them briskly, nodding at the few knights or guards I came across.
I would first check the Great Hall and hopefully find her breaking her fast. Or perhaps she was walking the rose gardens, as she was wont to do.
I wasn't sure where she was, but I was intent on finding her all the same.
The Silent Citadel loomed like an ancient ghost at Camelot's edge, its stone walls layered with the passage of time and forgotten whispers.
Once a proud fortress, a silent sentinel watching over the kingdom, it stood as a testament to the power of time. I approached cautiously, each step echoing softly against the cobblestone path, careful not to disturb the memories embedded in its shadowed halls.
The tower rose high above me, its pinnacle disappearing into the mist that clung to its battlements like lingering specters from the past. Vines crawled up its rugged stone walls with the tenacity of life amidst decay.
Windows were hollow eyes, staring out over Camelot with silent judgment, and the archways whispered tales of long-lost inhabitants.
I imagined Arthur’s ancestors once pacing these halls, their presence swallowed by time.
At the base, remnants of old armor rusted away in forgotten heaps, while the wind threaded through gaps in the stones, producing an eerie, intermittent song. Silence wrapped around me here, thick and palpable, as though the Citadel itself breathed an unwilling sigh.
Not a single pennant stirred, and even the sparrows that usually chattered in the eaves had gone silent.
As silent as I was.
Even though I had searched every conceivable location within the castle for Morgan, I had failed to find her.
In fact, I was fairly convinced she was nowhere to be found in Camelot.
Every corner remained obstinately empty, mocking my attempts to find her.
The ache of uncertainty now clawed at me; the Shadow Trial loomed, and Morgan, my lone ally, had vanished.
With each step toward the Citadel, my resolve hardened.
I would have to face the trial with the final two pieces of the Obscura.
And hopefully, Merlin's Draught and the Ember of Forgetting would be enough to shield me. The thought of Arthur’s perceptive gaze sent shivers through me, but there was no time for hesitance.
As I entered the crumbling courtyard of the Citadel, Lance's startled expression made my heart skip—a violent flutter that I fought to suppress beneath the rigid composure of Sir Lioran.
The way his dark eyes widened, the subtle shift in his stance as he caught sight of me, told me everything I needed to know.
He hadn't expected to see me here, hadn't expected me to appear at all.
His surprise was genuine, unguarded for just a heartbeat before his usual controlled mask slipped back into place.
Most likely, he had sent more letters to my room in an attempt to coordinate a plan, some carefully crafted excuse for Sir Lioran's absence from this final trial.
Messages that had gone astray in my desperate search for Morgan, left unopened on my chamber table while I had spent precious hours wandering Camelot's endless corridors like a person possessed.
Letters containing strategies we had never discussed, contingencies we had never planned, all rendered useless by my single-minded pursuit of an ally who had vanished into the castle's shadows like a ghost.
It explained the furrow that creased his brow, the flare of something deeper than mere surprise that lived in his eyes as I approached across the stone courtyard. Concern. Worry. Fear—not for himself, but for me.
The afternoon light caught the silver inlay of his black armor as he stepped forward, his imposing figure throwing a long shadow across the grounds.
I could read the tension in the set of his broad shoulders, the way his hand rested unconsciously near his sword hilt—the instinctive readiness of a warrior who sensed danger approaching someone he cared about.
"Sir Lioran," he greeted, his voice steadier than the look he wore. "Are you… feeling well enough to be here?"
So, he must have spun some tale about my ailing health. When Arthur turned his attention to me, there was concern in his eyes as well. Clearly, Lance must have told the king that Lioran was ailing.
"I feel well enough to be here, Sir Lancelot." Then I turned to Arthur and bowed. "My king."
Lance's expression revealed the storm of doubts churning beneath his carefully controlled exterior. The muscle along his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and I caught the way his dark eyes flicked toward Arthur before settling back on me—a warning, perhaps, or a question he couldn't voice aloud.
I could sense his desperate desire to speak further, to pull me aside and demand answers to questions that had clearly been plaguing him since whatever story he'd concocted to explain my absence.