CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN #2
All of this, all the pain and longing, for what? For a lie crafted so expertly it felt real? A deceptive facade? Was I merely a tool, manipulated by a weapon forged in the fires of her father's cunning ambition? A calculated pawn in a game far greater than I could ever grasp? Gods, I was a fool.
A complete fucking fool.
The truth began to eat at me: Guinevere was nothing more than a beautiful spy wrapped in lies.
Suddenly, each memory with her felt repulsive.
Her skill in the training yard—how effortlessly she’d bested the others with her magic.
The trials—how she’d passed them all with calm.
I’d told myself she was gifted. Brave. Rare.
Now I knew better. She’d been trained from birth to play this role.
And I had fallen right into her hands. Had she laughed at me to her father when I’d opened my heart to her?
When I'd found myself attracted to her as Lioran, no matter what I did to talk myself out of it? When I’d whispered affectionate words into the hollow of her throat, had she repeated them to her father?
Was it all just reconnaissance—cataloging my weaknesses for Merlin to later exploit?
Had she been scheming just how to weaponize my secrets?
I glanced over at Arthur and caught the expression on his face. Clearly, whatever flickers of doubt he might have had regarding Lioran, they were now gone. He’d heard enough.
And I had, too.
A hollow ache bloomed in my chest, a yawning chasm of betrayal that cracked straight through the parts of me I’d only just begun to trust her with. I’d let her in. I’d let her see me—not the knight, not the legend, but the man.
And all the while, she was plotting my downfall. Not only mine but Arthur's. Camelot's. All the knights who had made it thus far.
The memory of her touch seared now, not with longing but with shame.
Bile rose in my throat, and my fists clenched at my sides, nails biting into my palms. My blood boiled, fury rising swift and hot, burning away the last remnants of tenderness like fire consuming parchment.
My battle instincts surged to the surface—ready, unthinking, pure.
Hatred was easier. Cleaner. There were no contradictions in hatred. It didn’t whisper doubts. It didn’t ache. It screamed for retaliation, vengeance. And I welcomed the fury. Because at least that was real.
And yet, when Arthur finally stepped from his hiding place—moonlight catching on the polished steel of Caliburn—I had to grip the rough bark of the tree beside me to stop myself from rushing forward, my muscles coiled and ready to protect her.
The contradictions tore through me like physical wounds.
She was a liar, a spy, a weapon pointed at the very heart of everything I'd sworn to defend.
Every tender moment between us had been calculated deception; every soft word a manipulation crafted to bring down the kingdom I'd given my life to serve.
And still—still—when I saw that blade gleaming in Arthur's grip, when I witnessed the cold fury radiating from his imposing frame as he emerged from the shadows like an avenging specter, my first instinct wasn't justice or vindication.
It was fear that he would harm her.
Fuck!
The curse exploded through my mind with violent force, accompanied by the bitter taste of self-loathing.
What kind of fool had I become? What manner of knight protected the enemy who sought to destroy his brothers, his king, his realm?
My fingers dug deep into the tree's bark until I felt the sting of broken skin, using pain to anchor myself against the maddening urge to throw myself between them.
“Arthur Pendragon,” Nimue said.
“I have heard confirmation of treason.”
His words struck the air like a verdict already passed.
What followed between them—Arthur and Guinevere—I could only half hear.
I strained forward in the underbrush, every nerve taut, catching only snatches of their voices: Arthur’s clipped fury, Guinevere’s low, steady replies.
But then I watched her bow before him, offering Excalibur to him—something that made little sense.
Because it's all artifice—every gesture, every word, every trembling breath—nothing more than elaborate theater.
All a carefully orchestrated game where the stakes are kingdoms and the pieces are human hearts, and I'm watching from the shadows like some lovesick fool, unable to distinguish between genuine emotion and masterful manipulation.
The realization cut through me, leaving me hollow and aching. Of course, it was performance. What else could it be? She was Merlin's weapon, honed to perfection, trained to make even her surrender appear authentic. And now she was caught, and she must have realized her fate—death.
But the sincerity in her posture, the rawness of it—the obvious submission as she bowed before Arthur—made me question everything again. If she was performing, then she was a master beyond even Merlin’s teachings.
But there was one piece to this puzzle that left me baffled—one piece I struggled to make sense of: what did it mean that she'd drawn the sword from the stone? That she'd truly pulled Excalibur?
I'd witnessed it with my own eyes.
It's nothing more than Merlin's magic, I told myself. It's a lie. Just like every other lie she's woven since she arrived here.
The wind stirred the trees overhead, rustling leaves like restless whispers, while the thunderous pounding of my own heart filled my ears. I caught fragments—pleas, denials, demands—but the substance escaped me, and I was left helpless in the dark, clawing at bark and silence alike.
Then Arthur’s voice rose again—clear and cold as a winter sky.
After he attempted to return Excalibur to the stone and the sword refused, he dropped the sword into the lake, just beside the stone.
Then he ordered Nimue to return to her lake.
His tone was edged not just with command but with bitterness—a wounded pride sharp enough to draw blood.
I’d seen the way his face twisted with effort when he had attempted to return the sword to the stone, then with something far worse: humiliation.
Nimue said something I could barely make out—something along the lines of Arthur not being able to harm her daughter—that Excalibur had chosen her. But Arthur didn't respond, other than to tell her once more to return to the lake.
Nimue, unable to use her magic against Arthur, even to protect her daughter, turned, backing slowly into the lake.
The water rose around her without resistance.
She never took her eyes off Guinevere, not even as the mist reclaimed her, as her form shimmered at the edges and faded into the silver-dark depths.
When the last ripple faded, it was as though Nimue had never been there at all.
And in her absence, the silence was deafening.
Now Arthur stood alone with Guinevere on the shore, the tension between them so thick it was almost a physical force.
The king's shoulders were stiff beneath his royal cloak, his posture rigid with fury or disbelief—or both.
His hand lingered at his hip where Excalibur should have rested, fingers twitching slightly, as if still reaching for a power that no longer belonged to him.
Across from him, Guinevere remained kneeling, her white hair a bright banner in the moonlight. She looked like a penitent goddess—both dangerous and diminished—folded in on herself and yet unmistakably powerful.
"I do not desire your throne," she said to him as she held his gaze.
Arthur's eyes narrowed, his voice rising to a roar that echoed across the water. "SILENCE YOUR LIES!"
And then he moved.
Arthur raised his hands, fingers spreading wide, and I felt the sudden shift in the air.
Magic.
Not Merlin’s refined, layered spellwork.
Not the wild, ancient currents that poured from Nimue or Guinevere.
This was Arthur’s magic—blunt, primal, and rarely wielded, now that it was tainted with the dragon's fire.
It struck like a battle cry, raw and commanding, vibrating through the ground beneath my feet.
The space around Guinevere shimmered, crackling with blue fire that pulsed outward in waves.
Sparks flared at the edges of her silhouette, throwing long shadows across the lakeshore.
Arthur’s fingers tensed, his arm trembling with the force of the fire spell he was summoning.
It was a display of power I’d only seen him unleash in the direst of circumstances—when his control faltered and the dragon bled through.
He was going to incinerate her.
At the thought, a surge of protective instinct overcame my caution, and I began to step forward, away from my hiding place. My boots found silent purchase on the damp earth as I moved closer to the moonlit clearing, every muscle in my body coiled and ready to intervene.
I could understand and support it if he chose to arrest her, to drag her back to Camelot's dungeons for questioning and trial. That would be justice—harsh but fair given the circumstances of her deception and infiltration.
But this? This gathering storm of dragon fire and barely contained rage that promised to reduce her to ash and memory in the space of a heartbeat?
This was not justice; this was execution without trial, destruction born of wounded pride and royal fury.
And I would not stand witness to such cold-blooded murder, not even if it meant revealing my own presence and facing Arthur's wrath.
No. Whatever else Guinevere might be—spy, deceiver, enemy of the crown—she deserved better than to die kneeling in the grass like a sacrifice to his wounded ego.
But Guinevere didn’t move.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t raise a hand to protect herself against the heat of the flames, didn’t try to flee. She simply remained where she was, kneeling in the grass, in the center of the circle of fire, back straight, face lifted toward him.