CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
-GUIN-
The Duel Trial
The Grand Lists stretched across the eastern field beyond Camelot’s outer walls—a vast oval of packed earth surrounded by towering wooden palisades, their edges carved with old runes and the banners of the Pendragon line.
Servants and squires hurried along the inner ring, while the knights in polished armor stood like steel statues, their mailed fists resting on sword hilts as they watched from the edges.
Trumpeters in crimson livery waited on the raised platform to the west, ready to sound the beginning of the next trial, The Duel Trial.
Above it all, the royal stands loomed like a carved wooden fortress, tier on tier of ornately crafted seating built for the court of Camelot.
On the highest dais—the King’s Pavilion—sat at the center, draped in red and gold silks and crowned with the fire-winged sigil of the Pendragon.
A high-backed chair stood there, carved from dark oak and gilded along the arms with curling dragon motifs.
And on that chair sat Arthur, framed by the flickering shadows of the canopy overhead.
Arthur wore no crown—he rarely did outside of ceremony—but the weight of his authority was a presence that pressed against the air all the same. His cloak spilled around him in velvet the color of the ocean, while his gaze fixed on the arena floor, as sharp and cold as a drawn blade.
Around him sat the most powerful of Camelot’s courtiers.
Clustered closest to Arthur, leaning forward with fans, jeweled pins, and hungry curiosity, the high nobility whispered fiercely behind gloved hands, wagering reputation and coin on the outcome of this trial.
Further outward, perched on long wooden benches and craning to see the challengers, were the lesser lords and ladies.
But they were just as given to courtly gossip as anyone else.
Along the lower steps sat the scribes and heralds, quills poised and ready to record the trial for the royal archives.
Beyond the stands, the common folk had gathered behind wooden barriers, their cheers echoing through the arena like distant thunder.
Children perched on their parents’ shoulders; traders and travelers pressed in, eager for a glimpse of the spectacle.
I was surprised to see them here, these weathered farmers and tradesmen pressed against the wooden barriers, their faces flushed with excitement and anticipation.
The first two trials had been closed affairs—witnessed only by the nobility and Arthur's inner circle.
But this... this was different. This was theater.
Had Arthur deliberately thrown open the gates to the common folk?
I studied the crowd more carefully, noting how the merchants clutched their children close while simultaneously pushing forward for a better view, how the blacksmiths and bakers who served the castle daily now stood as spectators to their sovereign's deadly games.
Perhaps this was Arthur's calculated attempt at building bridges with his people—giving them bread and circuses, the ancient formula for keeping a restless population content.
I could almost see the political machinery at work: open the gates, let them see their king's magnificence, give them something to talk about in their taverns and market squares for months to come.
Entertainment had always been a powerful tool for rulers who understood that a distracted populace was a compliant one.
But even as I considered this possibility, I couldn't shake the feeling that Arthur's motives ran deeper than simple appeasement.
There was something deliberately provocative about this display, something that spoke to the harder edges of his character.
This wasn't just entertainment—it was a demonstration.
It was about control: letting them witness his power, his control over the magic he had banned them from practicing.
Show them that he alone could command it.
Either way, the air was thick with tension, dust, and sunlight.
Trumpets blared.
The duel was about to begin.
And every soul in Camelot—king, courtier, knight, and peasant alike—leaned forward to watch destiny unfold on the killing ground.
I felt like I was in slow motion as I moved to the sand-covered arena floor, following Galahad as he followed Kay. Percival was directly behind me. The sand shifted underfoot—raked smooth for the trial.
At the arena’s center stood Mordred, resplendent in silver-embroidered robes, runes glittering in the light. He scanned the assembled knights before him with cold detachment as we formed a line.
I glanced up to see Arthur sitting high above the others on a raised throne, Lancelot and his advisors flanking him like carved figures of war and wisdom.
Arthur’s expression revealed nothing. Regal.
Composed. A stone face carved to wear the crown.
And yet, seeing him still stirred something in me—less heat than before, but that fire wasn't gone. I’d done the work of talking myself down—of refusing to remember the way his touch at the lake had made my heart pound and how it had created a yearning deep inside me.
Instead, I focused on the fact that he was, first and foremost, my enemy.
"The Duel Trial begins!" Mordred's voice boomed across the arena, magically amplified to reach every person. The sound reverberated, silencing the murmur of hundreds of spectators in an instant.
"Today, each knight will demonstrate not only his magical power—but his mastery over that power.
" He paused, letting his words sink in as the silver streak in his hair caught the afternoon light.
"Today's trial is about control as much as it is about prowess.
Raw magical ability means nothing without discipline, without the refinement that separates a true knight from a mere wielder of power. "
His voice dropped slightly, forcing the crowd to strain forward to catch every syllable. "It is about magic, yes—but also physical ability. For what is a knight who cannot properly wield a sword? What use is a man who can command the elements but cannot command his own steel?"
As he turned to look at us, Mordred's thin lips curved into what might have been a smile, though it held no warmth.
"Today, we separate the wheat from the chaff.
Today, we discover who among you has earned the right to call himself Arthur's champion.
" His gaze lingered on each of us in turn.
"Today you will be pitted against one another—your magical skills tested, yes, but your physical abilities will be tested as well.
Your sword mastery, your ability to read your opponent in the heat of battle, your tactical acumen for making swift decisions when death hangs in the balance.
These are the qualities that will determine whether you live or die in service to the crown. "
Mordred paused to look at each one of us as though wanting to make sure we were paying attention.
"Magic without martial skill is chaos waiting to happen. A knight who cannot anticipate his enemy's next move, who hesitates when milliseconds matter, who allows his blade work to grow sloppy while focusing on arcane power—such a man is not worthy of Arthur's trust."
"Mordred does not know the meaning of the word 'succinct,'" Gareth whispered to Percival, who tried to hide his laugh behind a cough.
"For our first duel, I call forth," Mordred started.
The crowd then fell into complete silence, hundreds of nobles and courtiers hanging on his every syllable. Even the banners overhead seemed to still in the afternoon breeze, as if the air itself waited for Mordred's pronouncement.
"Sir Lioran of the Borderlands and Sir Balan of the Eastern Crosses."
“Balan?” Percival turned to me, concern written across his features.
It echoed my own.
Balan’s reputation was well-earned. He towered over the other knights, a mountain of muscle wrapped in ceremonial armor that shifted with the flex of coiled power. Even if Lancelot might have matched his height, he didn't match Balan's bulk. In fact, no one was as broad or as muscular as Balan.
Almost immediately, there was a flutter of conversation among the stands—everyone clearly shocked to find the two of us paired—Balan, the largest of the knights, and me, the smallest.
"Lioran and Balan?" Gareth said as he looked at Percival, and both shook their heads.
"There must be a mistake," Gawain added.
But I knew better. This was no mistake. It was completely intentional. Someone didn't want me to make it past this trial.
"Lioran," Percival started, but I interrupted him with a wave of my hand.
"No matter the size of the man, we all have our weaknesses, don't we?"
"Yes, but," Percival continued, but I cut him off as I took a step forward.
"Good luck, Lioran," Gawain called after me.
I gave him and Percival a quick nod, then took a deep breath as I stepped into the center of the arena and eyed my opponent.
Sunlight glanced off Balan's breastplate, glinting along every brutal line of his frame. When he flexed his gauntlets, the leather creaked like overstretched rope. Thank the gods this wasn't a physical trial only—because if it came down to brute strength, I’d be dead before I could blink. One punch from Balan and I’d be returned to Annwyn.
A murmur rippled through the crowd as he stepped forward—The Knight of Two Swords—broad, deliberate, and absolutely sure of himself. His shadow stretched long across the arena floor.
I glanced at Percival. He gave me a small nod, mouthing: “Remember your training."
Balan approached me with a cocky grin.
“This’ll be quick,” he announced, loud enough for everyone in the stands to hear.