CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE #2
“Your Majesty,” Mordred said, turning toward me with open curiosity. “Surely even you find this surprising.”
I could barely manage to speak.
“Indeed,” I said at last, and my voice came out quiet, clipped. My gaze never left Lioran. Meanwhile, the questions billowed inside me like smoke caught in a furnace.
Who is she really? How did she come here? What does she want?
Did she know she could pull the sword—is that what brought her here? Is she a witch? Is she sent from Merlin? Is she a member of the rebellion?
She is ours, the dragon thundered from within me. And we shall have her.
The dragon wasn't concerned with the thoughts and concerns of a king. The beast didn't care about the betrayal, confusion, or awe that churned beneath the surface of my skin. It only wanted to possess her, to mate her, to keep her.
One by one, the other archways began to shimmer.
Agravaine emerged next, grim-faced and pale. His usual sharp arrogance had dulled; he looked hollowed out, worn thin by whatever nightmare the Trial had conjured. His hands trembled at his sides, though he tried to mask it.
Next came Galahad—serene as ever, not a single curl out of place, his armor gleaming. The shadows had apparently found nothing within him worth exploiting. Of course.
Percival stepped through a moment later, and though he was visibly shaken, there was steel in his spine that hadn’t been there before.
And then Gawain. He stumbled, white as bone, sweat beading across his brow. His legs threatened to buckle, but pride alone kept him standing.
Five returned.
Three archways still pulsed with cold light—Kay, Tristan, and Gareth fighting their own demons within the Trial's grasp.
One archway—Tor's—had gone completely dark and silent. The absence of light there felt ominous, a void that seemed to swallow hope itself. My chest tightened as I stared at that lifeless stone frame—death. Another knight lost to the shadows. Another failure I would have to carry within me.
And one more archway appeared to be following the same terrible path—Sir Anders'. The light was fading rapidly, flickering like a dying candle in its final moments. The magical emanations grew weaker with each passing second, the stone growing cold and gray around the edges.
As I watched with growing dread, Lance stepped forward without hesitation, his black armor gleaming in the low light.
Behind him, two of my most trusted guards fell into formation.
Together, they crossed the threshold into Anders' failing archway, disappearing into whatever nightmare had claimed the young knight.
The stone flared briefly at their passage, then resumed its ominous dimming.
The dragon within me stirred restlessly, feeding off the tension and violence that hung thick in the air like smoke. But the dragon wasn't thinking about them.
It was thinking about her. Just as I was.
My eyes returned to Lioran—to her—to the elegant line of her jaw. To her small hands. To the grace in her movements, even when exhausted. To the shape of her throat.
The truth had been in front of us all along.
How had none of us seen it?
How had I not seen it?
Because I hadn’t wanted to. Because the idea of someone so noble, so fierce, so kind—so good—being anything but exactly who she claimed to be had felt impossible.
And now I was left standing here, watching the ruin of that illusion.
Another archway suddenly flared to life.
Kay emerged, his armor scratched, expression hollow. He didn't speak. Just marched forward like a man returning from war, eyes distant and glassy, no doubt still grappling with whatever nightmares the Trial had conjured for him. I had to admit, I wasn't pleased to see him.
Then came Tristan.
He stumbled through his archway like a drunkard, swaying with every step, his legs barely holding him upright.
His eyes were unfocused—wild and unseeing—locked on something beyond our perception.
His mouth moved constantly, lips forming words in no tongue I recognized.
But even without translation, the sound unsettled me to my core.
He was singing.
The melodies were beautiful and monstrous all at once, rippling through the chamber in languages that had no place in the mortal world. The notes seemed to bend the air around him, warping the shape of reality with every breath he took.
The Trial had not left him untouched, but he was still standing. And that meant he had survived. He was luckier than some.
I scanned the archways once more, counting. That made seven returned.
Lance then emerged from Anders' archway. He carried Anders' limp form draped across his shoulders like an offering to death itself. Two of my guards flanked him, their expressions grim and silent, clearly bearing their own burden with the death of a comrade.
Yet another knight had been swallowed by the Shadow Trial.
It was not the first time knights had failed to return, and it would not be the last. Their names would join the long roll of the fallen, honored in song and statue—but gone all the same.
Their families would receive silver. Their stories would be reshaped into legends that masked the true horror of their end. That was the cost of power.
Beside me, Mordred turned his head, locking eyes with mine. The look he gave me was brief but absolute: There will be no more.
The Trial was complete.
I forced my thoughts away from what I'd just seen—Lioran, the woman, standing unveiled in her true form, crowned in silver-white light like a figure from prophecy. That revelation would require time to unravel. But not now. Later. Later.
We will have her. She is ours. Our treasure.
I straightened my shoulders and hardened my voice, speaking for the survivors, for the court, for the watching stone gods of Camelot.
"You have faced the darkness within,” I called out, my voice echoing through the chamber, “and emerged victorious. Tonight we feast in your honor. And tomorrow—” I paused, steadying my tone, “you take your places at the Round Table as Knights of Camelot.”
The words were practiced. They fell from my mouth easily—smooth, familiar, necessary.
But I didn't feel them. I hardly even heard them.
I kept glancing back at Lioran—at her. She stood among the others, every inch the dutiful knight: posture flawless, expression unreadable, armor still gleaming despite the journey she'd just endured.
But just beneath the surface, I sensed the tension in her. The quiet alertness. The coiled energy of a hunted creature ready to flee or fight. She knew.
She knew I’d seen her truth.
That the veil had dropped. If that was the case, there was a very good chance she would escape.
We cannot lose her! the dragon roared.
No, we could not. And we would not.
"Escort Sir Tristan to the healers," I barked to the guards, more harshly than intended. "Every healer in Camelot is to see him. Spare no effort. No delay. If his mind is to be restored, it will be by our hands or not at all."
They obeyed, moving quickly to flank the still-murmuring knight, careful not to touch him too roughly, as though afraid he might shatter.
I watched them go, then returned my gaze to the assembled knights around me.
But only one figure held my attention now.
"You are dismissed to prepare for tonight’s feast. Rest well—you have earned it."
The knights bowed as one, their movements weary but suffused with the quiet pride that came from surviving what was certain death for others.
They began filing out of the chamber in small groups, their armor clanking softly against stone as they moved toward the doors.
Some leaned on each other for support, others moved with the measured steps of men concealing injuries, but all carried themselves with the dignity befitting Arthur's chosen.
I watched them go, my expression revealing nothing of the storm building within me. The dragon's presence pressed against my consciousness like a caged beast, and it was all I could do to hold it back.
As Lioran moved past me with the others, I reached out and caught her arm just above the elbow. My fingers closed around the deceptively slender limb with deliberate firmness—not enough to cause pain, but sufficient to make my intentions unmistakably clear.
The reaction was immediate and telling. Her muscles tensed beneath my grip, coiling tight.
Lance immediately noticed and appeared perplexed, no doubt wondering why I should single Lioran out.
Well, he would find out soon enough. For now, though, I had unfinished business with the youngest of the knights.
"A word, Sir Lioran." My voice was calm.
She nodded, the perfect image of deference, but there was wariness in her eyes now—a flicker that did not go unnoticed.
Around us, the chamber emptied until only Lance and Mordred remained.
"That will be all," I said, still holding her gaze.
Mordred inclined his head with customary grace. "Of course, Your Majesty."
"Is everything—" Lance began, stepping toward me. There was concern in his expression.
"That will be all," I said again, more sharply this time, cutting him off with a glance. My expression left no room for questions.
He hesitated, worry written plainly across his face as he looked between us.
His eyes lingered on Lioran—on her—but in the end, he obeyed.
The poor fool had no idea Lioran was a woman.
I could only imagine his shock when I told him.
With a reluctant nod, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance until only silence remained.
Silence and her.
I released her arm and took a step back. Then I studied her with new eyes—clear eyes. Now that I knew the truth, the illusion couldn’t hide her. Not from me. She’d hidden her femininity well—damnably well—but now that I’d seen her unveiled, I couldn’t unsee it.
And I couldn’t unfeel the slow-burning humiliation at having been deceived so thoroughly.