CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR #2
She started to lift the hem of her gown, and realizing where this was now headed, I panicked. Withdrawing my hand from her breast, I pulled back so hard I nearly tripped over my own feet and then started forward, actually tripping over hers. I had to steady myself against the parapet.
"I—I'm sorry, but I… I must be going."
I didn't wait for her response. Without another word, I strode toward the stairs leading down from the tower, my boots echoing against the stone with each hurried step I took.
The cool night air that had felt so refreshing moments before now seemed to mock me as it whipped around my retreating form.
Behind me, I could sense her watching; I could practically feel the weight of her gaze boring into my back as I fled like some green boy who'd never been propositioned by a woman before.
Which, in a way, wasn't entirely untrue.
-KAY-
I paced the length of my chamber, each step echoing against stone worn smooth by years of midnight deliberation.
The lone candle on my desk guttered in a draft, fitting company for my restless thoughts.
“Where the bloody hell is she?” I muttered, irritated beyond reason by the girl’s delay.
I’d given her my tunic spattered with Lioran’s blood days ago—four, to be exact. Why in all the gods’ names was it taking her so long to return with answers? Yes, I'd tried to break the magical imprints myself, but I lacked the kind of raw, practical magic necessary for such things.
So I’d turned to my usual web of castle connections. They had never failed me.
A smile tugged at my mouth as I recalled the night I'd followed the Royal Archmage’s apprentice—Elsbeth, the copper-haired herbalist with too much confidence for a mere servant. I’d noticed how she moved, how Mordred’s eyes trailed her at court. It wasn’t hard to guess why.
I'd assumed he was bedding the girl. And oh, how that assumption had rewarded me.
It was perhaps a night or two later that I'd found them together in the eastern tower—cloaked in shadow, tangled in one another.
Not just an apprentice and her master, but lovers locked in breathless abandon.
The noble, untouchable Mordred rutting the little herb-witch like a stable boy.
“The spider caught in his own web,” I'd whispered to the flickering dark as I pulled back into the recesses of shadow, neither of them aware that I'd overseen them in their most defenseless hour.
It had been delicious leverage. Already, I’d extracted magical knowledge Mordred would never have willingly shared—spells of mental influence pulled from the Prismatic Codex—Mordred's book of spells. Obscure, powerful enchantments, soon to be mine alone—when the time was right, of course.
Always when the time was right.
But now, soon, I would learn the truth about the mysterious knight from the borderlands. The one who’d captured the court’s imagination, and perhaps—if my suspicions were correct—Arthur’s attention as well.
Another thread. Another weakness. Another truth I could twist into a weapon.
Arthur would thank me, of course. When I uncovered whatever deception lay behind Lioran’s shining facade. Or perhaps—better still—if the secret involved Arthur himself—I would find myself with even more leverage. Something I could dangle like a blade over his head.
“Fate will soon reveal Lioran’s weakness—and maybe yours, too, brother,” I said with a laugh.
For that’s still how I thought of him: brother. Though we shared no blood. Fostered and raised together—until fate and that cursed sword lifted him above me. The boy I once shielded now sat on a throne that should’ve been mine.
I turned toward the mirror, adjusting my tunic with methodical care. Everything about me had to project authority, intimidation, fear. What Arthur was born radiating, I had to craft through intent.
My fingers paused on the embossed Pendragon crest at my shoulder. Not mine by blood, only by association. A borrowed symbol. A constant reminder: I was the almost-brother, the shadow to Arthur’s golden light.
But not forever. Fate had a way of shifting, of changing fortune. And I was due a shift and had been for a very long time.
I glanced over at the door. It did not open. Still, no sign of the girl.
Tension knotted my shoulders, sharp and insistent. Time was running thin. The Hunt Trial was nearly upon us—and with it, another stage for Lioran to win favor. Another step toward replacing me in Arthur’s inner circle.
I needed answers before then.
“Come on, girl,” I growled, pacing again. “What’s taking so fucking long?”
As if summoned by my irritation, the heavy wooden door creaked open at last. I immediately started for it, pulling it open as Elsbeth slipped inside, her composure visibly frayed. I quickly shut the door behind her before giving her my full, irritated attention.
"Where the bloody hell have you been, girl?"
Her copper braid was mussed, eyes wide and darting across the room before finally settling on me. At the expression of hostility in my eyes, she visibly winced.
“Sir Kay,” she whispered, barely audible.
I didn’t move. I simply watched her, noting the way her fingers clutched the bloodstained fabric with white-knuckled desperation. Her hands trembled. Beneath her usual earthy scent, I caught the sour tang of fear.
“You’re late,” I said flatly. “I expected results days ago.”
“I—I’m sorry, my lord.” She swallowed and refused to look at me, just hunched into herself, standing there like a trembling little mouse. “The blood... resisted all standard forms of divination.”
That caught my interest and my disappointment. I stepped forward slowly, circling her like a wolf sizing up wounded prey. “Resisted how?”
“It’s protected.” Her voice was thin, uneven. “By powerful magic. The kind Lord Mordred warned me never to tamper with.”
“And yet,” I murmured, circling behind her, maintaining a few inches of space between us, “you tampered, as instructed.”
She nodded, miserably. “I did.”
“And?”
She hesitated. Her gaze dropped even further to the floor.
That single motion told me everything I needed to know—she hadn’t uncovered anything useful. I felt a flare of fury ignite behind my sternum, and it was everything I could do not to reach out and smack her across the face.
“You came empty-handed?” I snarled.
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head, clearly afraid of displeasing me. “I found something. Just—it's only one thing.”
“Then speak,” I snapped. “By the Gods, you are wasting my bloody time!" But then something occurred to me. "You did not breathe a word of this to anyone? You remember our arrangement? Your discretion for mine.”
The threat didn’t need repeating. One whisper from me about her illicit bond with Mordred, and she’d be out of Camelot—or worse—before the sun rose.
She swallowed again, her voice trembling. “I have told no one. Not a soul."
"Then?" I asked in an impatient tone. "What did you find?"
"That the blood, my lord, the blood... it’s not a man’s.”
I stilled, surprise winding a quick path through my body. This was… very interesting. My smile spread slowly and coldly. “Go on.”
Her eyes rose to meet mine, and the fear in them was naked and raw.
“It’s a woman’s blood, my lord.”
My heart kicked hard in my chest. This was better than I’d dared hope. How it was possible, I did not know. The level of magic it would require to assume such a disguise and to wear it day in and day out…
“You’re certain?”
Elsbeth nodded, her breath catching. “I'm certain.” Then she extended the garment to me with reluctance. “I’ve marked the cloth where the magical signature is strongest. It’s… unusual."
I tore the cloth out of her hands and stared down at the small spot of blood. "Unusual how?"
"The water magic is potent, but there’s something more to it. Something old and something very powerful.”
"What is that something?"
She shrugged. "I could not tell, my lord."
I scanned the faint, glowing symbols she’d traced into the fabric, where the blood was the darkest. My mind raced. A woman masquerading as a knight—hiding behind ancient, layered magic? This wasn’t deception. This was treason. I could have Lioran—if that was even truly her name—killed for this.
“You’ve done well,” I said, already calculating how best to weaponize this discovery. “Naturally, you’ll continue to speak of this to no one.”
“Aye, my lord.”
She took a step back, inching toward the door. I let her reach the edge before stopping her.
“You’re not leaving just yet, girl.”
She froze. Her eyes flicked to the door—quick, desperate. A hare caught in a snare. She knew what was coming. She always knew.
This arrangement wasn’t simply about magic or discretion. It was about control.
“Come here,” I continued, my voice cold and clipped.
She glanced at her hand, which rested on the door latch as if she could taste escape.
"Now."
Her shoulders hunched forward as she dropped her hand from the latch and turned around, approaching me slowly, each step smaller than the last. Her copper braid swayed against her back, hands clasped like a penitent facing judgment.
“My lord, I really should return to—”
“—to what? Your precious herbs? Your master’s bed?” I laughed, low and sharp. “You’ll leave this chamber when I say.”
(Trigger Warning: skip the rest of this scene if you aren't comfortable reading on)
I grabbed her arm, pulling her toward my bed. She didn't resist—she never did—but the stiffness in her body spoke volumes. I pushed her forward until she fell across the mattress, her simple overgown riding up her thighs.
"Our arrangement benefits us both," I reminded her, working at the laces of my braies. "Your secret remains safe, and I get what I need."
"Yes, my lord."
My hands pushed roughly at her skirts, bunching the fabric around her waist. I pushed into her without ceremony, grunting at the sensation. This wasn't about pleasure—not hers, anyway. This was about power. About taking what I wanted because I could.