CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
-ARTHUR-
The Shadow Trial
My heart stopped.
Our treasure! the dragon screamed from within me.
White hair.
Each strand caught the torchlight and transformed it into something that belonged more to dreams than to the waking world.
The color was as I remembered it—not the brittle white of age, but the pure, lustrous silver of winter frost kissed by dawn.
It fell over her shoulders like liquid mercury, framing a face that had been burned into my memory like a brand.
She stood before me now, just as I'd seen her once before, standing at the lake's edge with Excalibur in her hands.
It was the vision that had haunted me for so long now, that had carved itself into my thoughts like scripture carved into stone.
That dream, that vision, was now made flesh.
And so close I could reach out and touch her, could confirm that she wasn't another phantom conjured by my restless mind.
The air between us seemed to thicken, heavy in a way that made each breath I took feel labored and deliberate.
The atmosphere crackled with the raw power of destiny finally catching up to its appointed hour.
I took a step closer to her, my mind still not fully comprehending the view before me, still doubting whether she was real or simply a figment of my imagination.
The stone walls began to blur at the edges of my vision, dissolving into meaningless shadow. The torchlight dimmed until it was nothing more than a distant glow. All that remained was her.
The space between us felt both infinite and nonexistent—I could have crossed it in two strides, yet it seemed to stretch like an ocean that no mortal man could hope to traverse.
And then, in the space of a single blink, a heartbeat's pause between one moment and the next, she vanished like smoke.
Her hair flickered back to dark blonde. Her face blurred, receding into the angular features of a man. Her violet eyes dimmed to blue as the glamour swept back into place. The transformation was so swift, so seamless, I might have doubted it entirely.
But I knew.
I'd seen those eyes—eyes that no one else in the realm possessed, that luminous shade between amethyst and storm-washed blue.
I'd seen that face every night in my dreams. A face I hadn't been able to banish from my thoughts, one that had driven me to madness. The face I’d searched for in every room of this blasted castle and beyond.
The face my foremost spy was still searching for in every town, in every outpost across Logres.
The face of the woman who had drawn Excalibur.
“Impossible,” I breathed. The word was barely more than a tremor, a ghost of sound swallowed by the weight of the room.
She had been here. Was here. In the cave beneath my castle. Standing there and wearing the face of a knight I'd trusted. A knight I'd praised. A knight I'd taken under my wing. A knight who had earned his place through valor, honor, and—Gods help me—lies.
Sir Lioran.
Or rather... the woman who had become Sir Lioran.
She is ours! We must take what belongs to us!
A burning heat rushed to my face as the full force of the truth broke over me like a tidal wave.
She hadn’t just stolen my sword. She’d infiltrated my court.
She'd sat at my table. Trained beneath me.
Shared bread and wine. She'd met my gaze with calculated innocence.
All of it—every shared laugh, every moment of quiet camaraderie, every nod of earned respect—was a carefully placed dagger cloaked in charm.
A mask.
A lie.
She'd played her part with such flawless precision that I'd been utterly deceived—so thoroughly, so completely that I'd found myself genuinely admiring this supposed knight.
Where I'd maintained a careful distance with the others, studying them for weakness or ambition, I'd actually rooted for Lioran.
I'd watched with something approaching pride as this young knight proved himself again and again, earning victories that stirred something in my chest I'd thought long dead.
I'd whispered approval when Lioran succeeded where others had failed.
I'd welcomed him—her—not just into my court, but into the heart of my kingdom. Into my inner circle. Into the sacred trust reserved for those I considered worthy of Camelot's future. I'd opened up to her; I'd trusted her.
And through it all, she'd worn the face of honor itself.
And now...
Now I saw her. Not just the illusion. But the truth.
Lioran—no, she—stood before me, panting, chest heaving as though the Trial had nearly broken her. She said nothing. Did not run. Did not speak.
And I... I said nothing either. I was too shocked to speak, too stunned to even breathe properly. The words I'd rehearsed a thousand times for this moment—commands, accusations, demands for truth—they all crumbled in my throat.
I only watched her. Watched as my mind struggled desperately to catch up to what my heart already knew, what some deeper part of me had perhaps always suspected but had been too proud, too willful to acknowledge.
The way my attention had always been captured by Lioran, how my gaze would linger longer on her than it should have, the instinct I had to protect her.
The way I'd found excuses to summon her to private audiences, telling myself it was because I worried Carlisle was after her, when the truth was far more damning.
All those tiny inconsistencies that I'd dismissed, rationalized away because I'd wanted so desperately to believe in Sir Lioran's truth.
The way her voice was never quite deep enough.
How she moved with a grace that was far too elegant for a farm boy turned knight.
The careful way she held herself around the other men, maintaining just enough distance to avoid the rough camaraderie that bound my knights together.
I'd noticed it all. Every single detail.
And yet I'd chosen to look away, to convince myself these were merely the quirks of an exceptional young knight who'd risen from humble beginnings.
Because accepting the alternative would have meant acknowledging that my judgment—the very foundation of my authority as king—had been so catastrophically, so utterly compromised.
This was no knight. This was no loyal servant of Camelot who'd earned my trust through valor and dedication.
This was the woman fate had promised me.
The woman who threatened everything I'd built.
The woman I wanted so desperately it pained me—a physical ache that settled deep in my chest like burning coal, impossible to ignore or extinguish.
Even now, even knowing what she was, what she represented, I could feel that treacherous pull toward her.
The truth should have disgusted me, should have filled me with righteous anger.
Instead, it only made the wanting more acute, more dangerous.
Even now, I wanted nothing more than to fuck her.
She is ours. Our mate. Our everything.
No. She is a spy, I yelled inwardly.
She had lied to everyone. Including her king. Including me.
The betrayal cut deep. Deeper than Merlin's abandonment, deeper than the sword's rejection, deeper than every political machination and court intrigue I'd endured.
Because this—this felt personal in a way that made my chest constrict with something that might have been grief if I'd allowed myself to feel it.
And we shall punish her, the dragon intoned, its voice a low rumble in the depths of my consciousness, ancient rage stirring like embers beginning to catch flame.
But after we claim her. After we mark her as ours. After we fill her with our seed.
The dragon still wanted her just as desperately as I did.
My hands began to shake. I clasped them behind my back before anyone could notice. The chamber still felt like it was spinning around me, but I locked my knees, stood straighter, and called upon the iron discipline hammered into me since childhood.
That was when Mordred and Lance returned.
I was still in such shock that I could only turn to watch them, taking in Lance's armor, which was usually immaculate, now bearing dark stains that could only be blood.
They had returned from the grim task of resuscitating Sir Tor, though their expressions told me everything I needed to know about the outcome.
Another knight lost to the trials. Another family that would receive word their son had died in service to the crown, though the truth was far more complex—and far more damning.
The metallic scent of blood clung to them both, mingling with the acrid tang of magical residue that always followed Mordred's more intensive spellwork. Both of them were, of course, completely unaware that in the briefest flicker of time, everything had changed.
Mordred's voice cut through the tumult in my head.
“Sir Lioran, you are the first to return,” he said, surprise unmistakable in his tone. But his astonishment had nothing to do with what I'd seen.
“Unprecedented,” he continued. “Truly remarkable. I must admit, I am beyond impressed.”
Lioran—she—nodded stiffly, still winded.
“Yes,” came the familiar voice, modulated and steady, though I could see the exhaustion in her shoulders, the tremor in her hands that she tried to hide.
Lance stepped forward, concern on his face. “Are you well?”
She raised a hand, halting him with the gesture, her voice calm but frayed at the edges. “I am.”
I wanted to scream at Lance: She is a woman! She's not the knight you believe her to be! She's the woman from the lake—the woman who held Excalibur. The woman who has driven me mad every night and day since I first saw her!
But no, I couldn't do that. Not with as many witnesses as surrounded me—Mordred and two or three guards. And soon the rest of the knights would start returning.
You must control yourself, Arthur, I thought. Think and plan. Do not react.
I forced my breathing to steady, summoned every ounce of courtly control I possessed.