CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
-CORVIN-
The Standing Stones rose before me like giant teeth, their surfaces slick with rain, pale in the moonlight.
I'd crossed this threshold from Annwyn to Logres many times before, but tonight the familiar ritual felt different. Heavier. Maybe it was the urgency that was driving me. Or the worry.
My blood sang as I passed between the markers—not with pain, but with recognition. Years of blood injections had seen to that, Merlin's essence woven into my veins like thread through cloth until the stones knew me as intimately as they knew their creator.
It was the only way I could travel through them as often as I did, disguised as The Fox—otherwise, the magic trigger would have destroyed me the second I stepped foot across the threshold.
The boundary between realms shimmered around me, that peculiar sensation of stepping through a waterfall made of starlight.
My skin prickled as Logres fell away and Annwyn's twilight embraced me.
The air changed immediately—thicker, charged with power that made my teeth ache if I breathed too deeply.
Luminescent flowers opened along the path ahead, their soft blue glow illuminating my way forward.
But I couldn't say I noticed them. Instead, my mind was a battlefield of warring emotions—anger towards Merlin battling with bone-deep fear for Guin, both tangled up with the familiar, bitter ire I felt towards Arthur.
Each thought crashed against the others like storm waves against stone, leaving me dizzy with the force of conflicting loyalties.
Arthur believed The Fox served him. That his most trusted spy in the borderlands kept watch over Annwyn's movements, reporting any threat that might leak from Merlin's realm into Logres proper.
The irony would have been amusing if it weren't so pathetic.
Every piece of intelligence I'd fed Arthur over the years had been carefully curated by Merlin himself—just enough truth to maintain credibility, never enough to matter.
I was Arthur's spy the way a dagger was a friend. Only useful when aimed at someone else's back.
But recently, my loyalties had shifted in ways Merlin hadn't anticipated.
I'd spent more and more time in Camelot these past months than I had in years, haunting the castle like a restless spirit.
Not that anyone had seen me—there was a reason I'd earned the nickname the "ghost of Blackhollow.
" The reason I'd spent so much time in Camelot went by the name of Guinevere.
I'd watched her from the shadows, followed her through torch-lit corridors at a distance that would keep me invisible but close enough to act, should I need to. Of course, I couldn't be there always, even if I wanted to be. But I had never been far.
When Arthur had sent me north to find the white-haired woman, I’d ridden as far as Thornwash—close enough to claim I’d searched thoroughly, far enough to avoid unnecessary distance from Camelot.
I’d questioned innkeepers and merchants, made a show of tracking phantom leads through muddy villages and forgotten hamlets.
All performance. All lies.
I already knew exactly where the white-haired woman was. She stood in Camelot’s training yard each morning, disguised as Sir Lioran, swinging a practice sword with water magic flowing through her as if winter itself had claimed her bloodline.
Arthur’s obsession with finding the white-haired woman had concerned me from the start.
It had been an absolute mistake on Guin’s part—that she’d allowed him to see her as her true self.
She should have known her beauty was enough to make any man completely out of his mind for her.
With a face that belonged in legend, not reality, she was easily the most beautiful woman in any room.
It was no surprise that Arthur had succumbed just as easily as I had—though I’d had years to build my resistance, but it still wasn’t enough.
I was fairly sure Lance had also fallen under her spell, judging by the way his gaze lingered on Lioran during training sessions, that particular hunger poorly disguised as tactical assessment.
I was still unsure as to what had passed between Arthur and Guin the night he’d seen her true self. I hadn’t been present—a rare lapse in my surveillance that I now regretted bitterly. But I knew enough to know this obsession was dangerous.
Arthur didn’t simply want her.
He coveted her. And what was more? I was fairly certain the dragon coveted her just as much.
At the thought of the dragon, another memory rose unbidden, sharp as fresh grief.
Arthur kneeling beside Uther’s deathbed, the old king’s breathing rattled and wet as everyone in the room realized what was about to happen—if Uther died, the dragon would be released. It was then that Lance and I had carried the old man to the Wilds, to the witch.
Merlin had been with us. As for what happened that night, I wasn’t entirely certain. As far as I understood it, Lance and I had passed out. And when we’d awakened, the dragon had already been forced into Arthur, rewriting something fundamental in his bones.
That was the moment. The precise instant Arthur’s sanity began its slow unraveling.
Once I’d come to, it was to see Arthur standing there, in that unnatural circle, sweat-soaked and trembling, eyes wild with something that wasn’t quite human. I’d reached for him, but Arthur had flinched away as if touch itself had become unbearable.
“It’s done,” he’d whispered.
What none of us had understood then: it had only just begun.
I'd seen him fixate before—on enemies, on strategies, on perceived threats to his crown.
But this obsession for Guin felt different.
Darker. The way he spoke her name carried weight that made my skin crawl, like the dragon inside him had caught her scent and wouldn't rest until it possessed what it desired.
Now she sat in his dungeon, and I was out of time.
Truth be told, I'd never been in favor of this mission.
I'd argued against it from the start. But Merlin had been determined to see Guin infiltrate Camelot.
I wasn't certain why. But once she'd glommed onto the idea—in order to exact her revenge against Arthur, I was outvoted.
That didn't change the fact that every second she walked among men who would kill her without hesitation if they discovered her true nature.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Arthur's most trusted spy had become a protector of the very person he'd been sent to monitor. But then again, Arthur had always been blind to the things that mattered most.
What was more, Merlin never asked me to protect her. He never mentioned she existed beyond her role as his unwitting agent. He never mentioned she was his daughter.
That alone should have told me something.
The forest path wound upward, ancient trees pressing close on either side. Their branches whispered secrets I'd long since learned to ignore. My jaw clenched as I replayed the moment I'd discovered the truth.
She's his daughter.
His only child, and he'd sent her into Camelot like a lamb to slaughter.
The rage that thought sparked made my hands shake.
I'd served Merlin faithfully since the day we'd left Camelot.
I'd turned my back on Arthur—my brother in all but blood—because I believed in Merlin's vision for the realm.
I'd become a traitor and a spy, played both sides, all because I trusted that Merlin saw further than the rest of us.
But this? Sending his own flesh and blood into Arthur's den without protection, without backup, without even the courtesy of telling her who she truly was?
This wasn't strategy. This was sacrifice.
And now Arthur had her locked in his dungeon, discovered and exposed, with nothing but her wits and whatever questionable mercy a king possessed standing between her and execution.
I'd watched from the lake as Arthur dragged her away wrapped in his cape like a trophy.
Watched Lance follow at a distance, his face a mask of fury and guilt.
Watched Kay slip through the shadows with that calculating gleam in his eyes that promised future complications.
I saw it all, just as I always did.
And what had passed between Arthur and Guin was something I was trying my best not to think about.
I'd always assumed she was a maiden—owing to the naivete she wore like a second skin in Annwyn.
During her training sessions, I'd catch her watching me when she thought I wasn't looking.
That heat in her eyes—gods, it had kept me awake more nights than I cared to admit.
But it wasn't the practiced desire of courtesans or noblewomen who knew exactly what they wanted and how to wield their beauty as a weapon.
No, Guin's longing carried a rawness that made my chest ache. An innocence that spoke of someone who'd never acted on her hunger, never learned to mask or manipulate it.
She'd blush when our eyes met, quickly looking away as if embarrassed by her own thoughts.
Sometimes during practice drills, her focus would slip, her gaze dropping to my hands, the breadth of my shoulders, my mouth.
Then she'd shake herself like someone waking from a dream, recommitting to the lesson with even fiercer determination.
Those moments had tortured me. Because I wanted her just as much as she appeared to want me.
But I could do nothing about it. After all, what could I offer her except more secrets, more lies?
Not only was I her guardian, but I was Merlin's spy pretending to be Arthur's agent.
I was complicated. And she deserved so much more than that.
So I'd ignored the heat between us. Kept my distance. Pretended not to notice. Swallowed it down.
But now knowing she was no longer the maid she had been—that some man had gotten to her first—I didn't know how to process it.
The jealousy hit harder than it should have.
Harder than I had any right to feel. I'd never touched her, never crossed that line despite the thousand opportunities I'd had.
Never claimed anything beyond the role of silent protector.
So why did the knowledge that someone else had gotten to her taste so bitter in my mouth?
Lance.
His name surfaced unbidden, unwelcome. The way he'd looked at Lioran during training sessions—he'd known he was a she, even if his mind hadn't been able to process the truth.
His body certainly had. The way his jaw had tightened when others spoke dismissively of the northern knight's humble origins.
The careful distance he'd maintained after the Hunt Trial—too careful, too deliberate.
And then, at some point, he'd found her out.
I still wasn't certain how. That was the problem with having to be in two places at the same time and living two very different lives—that of Corvin, second to Merlin, and that of The Fox.
Anger coiled through my chest, hot and bitter. If Lance had touched her, if he'd taken what I'd spent years denying myself—
I forced the thought away, shoved it down with the same ruthless discipline I'd used to survive years of playing both sides. Because I had no right to think such thoughts. Because I'd seen the way she looked at him. She desired him just as much as he did her.
It didn't matter. Not now. Whatever had or hadn't happened between Guin and Lance—or anyone else—was irrelevant compared to the current issue facing me.
Guin sat in Arthur's dungeon, exposed and vulnerable, at the mercy of a king who'd never learned the meaning of that word.
And it was clear—painfully, horrifyingly clear—that Arthur was going to force himself on her at some point.
Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon.
I'd seen that look in his eyes at the lake, the way the dragon inside him had stirred to life when he'd touched her.
Possession and hunger twisted together into something that wouldn't be denied.
Not only that, but she was also at the mercy of the guards. And with beauty like hers… mercy wouldn't spare her.
And Kay…
Kay was perhaps the greater danger.
Arthur I understood. His obsessions followed patterns; his cruelty had limits—however arbitrary. The dragon inside him might howl for blood, but Arthur still wrestled with remnants of honor, still heard echoes of the boy who'd once dreamed of justice.
Kay, though. Kay was different.
He'd watched her at the lake. I'd seen him slip through the trees like a carrion bird drawn to death. He knew her secret now—knew she was a woman, knew she was the white-haired woman of Arthur's obsession, knew Arthur wanted her.
And Kay collected secrets the way other men collected coin.
He'd use her—leverage her against Arthur, against Lance, against anyone who served his twisted ambitions.
Or worse—he'd simply take what he wanted before handing her over to be executed.
I'd seen the way his eyes tracked women through the halls, that particular hunger that had little to do with desire and everything to do with power.
The thought made my hands curl into fists.
I picked up my pace, boots silent on the luminescent path. Caer Gwyll's tower rose ahead, its spires piercing the twilight sky.
Time to have words with my so-called master. Time to make him answer for what he'd done.
The ancient trees gradually parted like curtains drawn back by invisible hands, their massive trunks stepping aside to reveal the full majesty of Caer Gwyll.
Merlin's castle rose from the mist-shrouded valley like something born from dreams and starlight—its spires twisted too high, defying the natural laws that governed mortal architecture.
Veins of silver light pulsed through the translucent walls, throwing dancing shadows across the courtyard's gardens where flowers bloomed in colors that had no names.
Under normal circumstances, the sight never failed to humble me.
The way moonbeams seemed to solidify into buttresses, how the air shimmered with barely contained magic, the haunting beauty of a structure that existed as much in the realm of possibility as in physical space—it was a testament to power that made kings look like children playing with wooden swords.
But tonight, that ethereal beauty might as well have been ash and rubble for all the impression it made on me.
My mind was consumed with darker visions: Guin trapped in Arthur's web of obsession, Kay circling like a vulture with his cruel smile, the dragon's hunger growing stronger with each passing moment.
Whatever game Merlin was playing with Guin's life, it ended tonight.