CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO #4
I nodded, accepting the praise with a measured smile.
Inwardly, though, I brimmed with something stronger than pride—validation.
Not just that my training had paid off, but that I belonged here among these warriors, these legends whose names would echo through history.
I'd fought for my right to stand in this arena, and I'd earned it through skill and determination—more than earned it, really, since underneath the carefully constructed facade of Sir Lioran, I was a woman.
A woman who had just defeated one of Camelot's seasoned knights in single combat, using nothing but her intelligence, her magic, and the deadly precision Merlin had drilled into me during those grueling months in Annwyn.
A woman going up against men who had trained from boyhood with sword and shield, men who had never questioned their right to wear armor or bear the title of knight.
I wish Corvin could see me now. He would be so proud of me.
I had never been prouder of myself. And for a moment, I forgot who I was, forgot why I’d come.
I wasn’t a spy. I wasn’t Merlin’s agent.
I was only a knight who had won the entire court's respect.
I watched the remaining duels with a tactician’s eye, studying how each knight performed under pressure.
Sir Galahad's solar magic overwhelmed Sir Hanover's lunar defenses in a display so brilliant it seared afterimages into my vision.
The golden-haired knight stood motionless at the center of the arena while wings of pure light opened from his shoulders, each feather radiating heat that made the air shimmer.
His opponent's silvery shield crumbled as Galahad's celestial fire poured from his outstretched hands.
The crowd fell silent, then erupted into nervous murmurs—few had seen divine magic wielded in such a way.
When Galahad's light finally dimmed, Hanover lay unconscious on the sand, his armor still glowing with residual heat.
The knight of purity helped his opponent to his feet with gentle hands, but I caught the way his gray eyes lingered on the fallen man's face, studying the expression of defeat with something that looked dangerously close to hunger.
Sir Tristan's match proved equally unsettling, though in an entirely different way.
His necromancy didn't announce itself with fanfare—darkness simply began seeping from the ground around Sir Lamorak's feet like spilled ink.
By the time the knight noticed, spectral hands were already clawing their way up through the arena sand.
Tristan's voice carried across the field, low and melodious as he sang something in his native tongue, the words weaving his death magic into reality.
Sir Lamorak froze mid-strike, his sword arm locked in place while translucent figures wrapped around his limbs like chains.
The ghosts whispered in voices only he could hear, their faces pressed close to his ears.
Whatever they said made him begin shrieking—not in pain, but in absolute terror.
His cries echoed off the arena walls until guards rushed forward to carry his rigid body away.
He was still screaming about things only the dead could know.
After those two spectacles, the rest of the duels were rather forgettable.
Regardless, Arthur and Mordred conferred after each match, their heads close, expressions unreadable.
Mordred took careful notes, gesturing subtly toward certain knights.
Arthur responded with small nods or curt dismissals—evaluating.
By late afternoon, the final match concluded.
The arena buzzed with conversation as nobles recalculated their allegiances.
Servants wove through the crowd, collecting wagers and ferrying sealed notes between spectators.
Already, I could see alliances shifting—who sat closer to whom, who now looked away.
“You’ve drawn attention,” Percival said, nodding toward a cluster of northern lords who kept glancing in my direction. “Border knight topples the tournament favorite—they’ll be measuring your value by nightfall.”
“I’d rather be invisible."
“Too late.” He smiled faintly. “After today, everyone knows Sir Lioran.”
Gareth approached us then, his expression open and earnest. “That was impressive, Lioran.”
Gawain was behind him. "I thought Balan was going to catapult you into the afterlife."
I laughed. "Well, thanks for your vote of confidence."
He chuckled. "Well done, Lioran. Well fucking done."
Percival patted me on the back a few times, but he didn't know his own strength and nearly sent me stumbling.
"Christ, Percival, don't kill our champion," Gareth laughed.
I nodded my gratitude for their words and offered my own words of encouragement, which they accepted gracefully.
My attention seemed to settle on Gareth, whose auburn hair had come loose from its leather tie, soft strands falling around his face.
There was something warm and unguarded about him—less polished than Arthur, less practiced than Lancelot certainly, but interesting all the same.
Gareth wore his curiosity like armor, and it somehow suited him.
That was when I noticed Kay.
He stood across the arena, his sharp gaze fixed on me. His expression was cold, calculating—the look of a man already cataloging my every move. One misstep, one twitch out of character, and he would see through me. I had to wonder if he already had.
I subtly adjusted my posture—squared shoulders, broader stance.
Kay’s eyes followed the shift, narrowing with clinical interest. It was as though he was memorizing every aspect of me and storing the information for later use.
The man collected vulnerabilities like trophies, waiting patiently for the perfect time to exploit them.