CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE #2
Yet he held back with the iron discipline that had made him Arthur's most trusted knight, clearly worried about exposing our deception.
The weight of unspoken words hung between us, sharp and dangerous.
In his silence, I read volumes: concern for my well-being warring with loyalty to his king, battling against the fear of either of us being found out.
He nodded, his silence as solid as his armor.
Meanwhile, the decrepit courtyard held its breath, knights gathering beneath the indifferent gaze of marble heroes, all succumbing to the abuse of time. Each idle murmur added to the tension; every footfall seemed a heartbeat waiting to thunder.
The court was in attendance for this last trial.
They had assembled in tiered rows that ringed the Citadel, though none of them had taken their seats.
Their finery contrasted sharply with the decay around them: silks and velvets in jewel tones, elaborate hairstyles with gold pins, rings glinting on fingers that gestured languidly as they gossiped behind fans and gloved hands.
Lady Elaine perched among her attendants in the eastern section, all of the houses separated (as always) by geographical location.
Her beauty was carefully arranged, her attention fixed on Arthur as I wondered if she still had her sights set on him, even after he’d scorned her at the start of the trials.
It appeared she did. Scattered throughout stood lesser nobles, advisors, and opportunists—perhaps eighty souls total, all watching, all waiting to witness which knights would emerge as Arthur’s new Round Table.
Their collective anticipation pressed against me like a physical weight.
I adjusted the ceremonial armor they’d given me—a midnight blue tunic, traced with silver wave patterns across the breastplate. Crystals embedded at each joint pulsed faintly, humming whenever I moved. The armor felt heavier than my usual gear—weighted not with steel, but with expectation.
Nine others stood beside me in the courtyard as the sun climbed higher.
Galahad looked serene, like he awaited morning prayers rather than a trial that would likely break a few of us.
Percival flexed his fingers rhythmically, nerves plain in every motion.
Gawain stood rigid, already locked in some silent inner war.
Agravaine seemed composed, revealing nothing.
Tristan stood there with a pleasant smile, though the shadows behind his eyes suggested anything but joy.
Gareth appeared a stark contrast, standing by Tristan but rigid and alert, his posture a soldier’s promise in sinew and bone.
Kay, meanwhile, skulked in the shadows, separate from the other knights.
He refused to look at me. Sir Anders and Sir Tor rounded out the group.
That was when I felt him. Lance appeared at my shoulder, close enough that I caught the scent of leather, steel, and something warmer beneath—familiar, grounding. His scent.
“Are you well?” he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
“Yes.” I kept my tone neutral, though my pulse betrayed me. He looked at me with concern.
“What you face in this trial… it’s not something you can cut down with a sword.” He leaned in closer. "The magic that created this trial was originally woven by Merlin himself. The magic remained dormant until Mordred awakened it. And Merlin’s magic, Guin, it’s much stronger than Mordred’s."
I felt my stomach drop. This trial was originally orchestrated with Merlin’s magic? What would that mean that I was going into it protected by the same magic that had crafted the trial? I didn’t know, and that thought concerned me.
I opened my mouth to ask what Lance meant, but the question died on my lips when Mordred emerged from the citadel, as if conjured by the shadows themselves. Mordred’s usual courtly robes were gone, replaced by a simple black tunic covered with silver runes.
Mordred walked up to Arthur, and the two of them stood there, looking at the knights assembled before them.
Arthur wore full ceremonial armor—polished so brightly it threw shards of sunlight in every direction.
A deep crimson cape draped from his shoulders, and the crown of Logres sat heavily on his brow.
His jaw was clenched, eyes distant, and I noticed the subtle twitch of his sword hand—like it itched for a weapon that wasn’t there.
Excalibur.
"Today, you face not external challenges, but the darkness within," Mordred said. His voice, though soft, carried with eerie clarity through the breathless air. "The Shadow Trial—the final trial—reveals what you hide even from yourselves."
He turned and led us from the courtyard to a narrow stone walkway, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow. The courtiers followed at a distance, clearly not wanting to miss any of the action.
The walkway sloped gently downward, ending at an ancient iron gate fashioned of twisted metal figures—serpents, wolves, and faceless men—that seemed to writhe in the sunlight. Beyond the gate was the mouth of a dark cave.
With a flick of his wrist and a pulse of blue light from the runes on his sleeve, the massive lock clicked open. The gate swung open in silence, too smooth; its unnatural quietness somehow more disturbing than any rusted groan could have been.
We passed through the threshold, and Mordred led us into the cave.
At once, our footfalls fell silent, muffled by enchantment or design.
The courtiers were unable to follow us this far and simply stood there, watching from a distance, which was just as well because their constant chirping about this and that was its own form of hell.
"You have now entered a vast subterranean hall stretching far beneath Camelot’s foundations," Mordred explained.
The cave's ceiling vanished into darkness above, and pillars—each carved with symbols I didn’t recognize—rose like bones to support the crushing weight of the castle. It felt like standing inside the ribcage of some titanic, long-dead beast.
We followed Mordred deeper into the cave until it no longer resembled a cave at all, but some type of catacomb.
We continued through twisting corridors and steep stairwells worn smooth by the feet of centuries.
The farther we descended, the colder it became—not merely a physical chill, but a soul-deep cold, ancient and watchful.
As Mordred walked, torches along the walls lit, burning with blue flames.
Then the corridor widened.
We stepped into the final chamber—immense, circular, lit by numerous torches burning with blue light that reflected off the black stone beneath our feet, creating the illusion that we stood suspended over a yawning void.
Ten archways lined the chamber’s walls, each framed in runes and pulsing with its own faint, colored glow: red, orange, yellow, violet, green, gold, silver, sky blue, midnight blue, and deepest black.
Mordred paused.
He turned slowly, letting his gaze settle on each of us in turn. The silver streak in his hair caught the blue torchlight, glinting like a blade in moonlight.
"As you can see, there are ten archways for ten knights. Each will respond to the soul that approaches it."
He let the silence hang for a breath.
"This Trial is designed to see and reveal what you hide…
from yourself—those pieces of your character you might not even realize exist—your shadow self.
" He paused. "Unlike the Riddle of Blood, which revealed the secrets you willingly hide from the world, this trial reveals the secrets you don't know you hide: family secrets, truths that your own subconscious refuses to acknowledge. "
Then Mordred stepped aside, extending one long-fingered hand in a gesture that managed to be both inviting and commanding. "Position yourselves. One knight beneath each archway."
I swallowed hard—my throat suddenly parched—and stepped forward toward the arch directly before me. The stone beneath my boots felt colder with each step I took, as if the ground itself recoiled from what was about to unfold.
As I took my position, the archway above me pulsed once, then began to glow a deep, mesmerizing dark blue.
Around the chamber, the other archways answered their knights with their own hues—crimson for Galahad, yellow for Percival, violet for Agravaine.
Each color seemed to reflect something intrinsic about the soul standing beneath it.
I couldn't help but wonder what my own hue revealed about me.
Arthur moved to the center of the chamber, and the air seemed to still around him.
Even though I'd experienced those stolen moments with Lance, I couldn't help the treacherous pull I still felt toward Arthur.
Standing here in this sacred space, watching him, something deep within me responded.
The truth was that I was just as attracted to Arthur as I always had been, no matter what had happened between Lance and me.
The shame of that realization burned through me like acid.
What kind of woman was I to feel desire for two men at the same time?
Especially given what had just happened between Lance and me.
Yet there was still something about Arthur that called to me.
Something within me recognized the loneliness behind his crown, the burden he carried like armor that never came off.
"You have made it to the final trial," his voice echoed through the chamber, carrying a weight that seemed to settle into the stones around us. "The Shadow Trial."