CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
-GUIN-
As I broke my fast in the common hall, a page in royal livery approached, his expression stiff with protocol.
“Sir Lioran,” he said with a formal bow, “His Majesty requests your presence at the private training grounds at the tenth bell.”
Conversations around me faltered. Several knights turned, curiosity on their faces.
“The private training grounds?” I repeated, certain I’d misheard. That space was reserved for Arthur’s inner circle, a place where only the king and his most trusted companions trained.
“Yes, Sir Lioran.”
“I see.” I kept my voice level, though a sudden tightness coiled in my chest. I could only hope this had nothing to do with Arthur's line of questioning earlier—about the woman who had pulled the sword from the stone.
But then I remembered Lancelot mentioning something about Arthur wanting me to be trained specifically by one or both of them, and I calmed down. Just a bit.
Could that be the reason why? Or was it something else entirely?
When I'd been summoned the day before for the maiden festival (which wasn't really much of a festival at all, considering no one had been told about it, and it had been held in a very strange location for a festival), I was nervous.
And when I'd witnessed a trail of light-haired women leaving the ruins of what had once been a chapel, I didn't know what to think.
But nothing could have prepared me for the questions Arthur had thrown at me once I'd walked into the chapel.
I'd immediately realized I'd been too careless with my magic at the Duel Trial.
Of course, Arthur would have recognized the mist that had obscured Balan!
It was the same mist that had hidden me at the lake.
The only difference? The mist I'd created to thwart Balan had come from my own magic.
The mist at the lake? I still didn't know where it had come from.
All I did know was that I hadn't created it myself, or if I had, I hadn't done so consciously.
“Please inform His Majesty that I am honored by the invitation,” I told the page once I realized he was awaiting my response.
The man bowed and departed.
Percival leaned close, his voice low. “This isn’t just praise, Lioran. This is recognition.”
-GUIN-
When the tenth bell tolled, I stood before the iron gate that marked the entrance to the private yard, each chime hammering in time with my heartbeat.
Two of the King’s Guard flanked the gate—standing there silently in red and gold. Their dragon-crested armor gleamed in the morning sun like blood on burnished treasure. Their gazes swept over me with disinterest.
“Sir Lioran," the one closest to me said, stepping aside. "The king awaits you.”
I gave him a nod of thanks and stepped through the gap between them, careful to mask the tension in my stride.
The training yard lay at the heart of Camelot's innermost defenses—a quiet sanctuary of stone and sunlight that felt worlds away from the chaos of the more public training grounds I'd grown accustomed to.
Here, smooth flagstones of pale granite had been fitted together, each stone gleaming like mirrors beneath the morning sun.
The surfaces bore no scuffs or gouges from countless practice sessions, nor churned earth stained with sweat and blood.
This was not a place where common soldiers honed their craft.
High walls of weathered stone enclosed the space on all sides.
Carved niches held statues of ancient warriors, their marble faces bearing expressions of stern concentration.
Climbing vines with small white flowers had been carefully cultivated to frame each alcove, adding touches of natural beauty to the otherwise austere military atmosphere.
But it was the runes that caught my attention—carved into the stones beneath my boots. Ancient symbols of focus, clarity, and amplification. This place had been built for magical combat long before Arthur had outlawed magic.
Curious, I thought. That the king who banned magic still trained in a place meant to enhance it—for those he favored.
Hypocrite.
Arthur stood at the center of the pristine yard, his sword drawn and gleaming in the filtered sunlight that streamed through the ancient stone archways.
He moved with the grace of a master swordsman, demonstrating a complex series of strikes and parries to Lancelot, who watched with the rapt attention of a devoted student despite being a warrior of considerable skill himself. Perhaps even more skill than Arthur.
The king's voice carried across the enclosed space as he explained some nuance of technique, his words precise and authoritative even in instruction. Sweat beaded along his brow from what I imagined was their earlier sparring, and tendrils of steam rose faintly from his skin.
When they both turned and caught sight of me, their conversation ceased mid-sentence. Arthur lowered his blade, while Lancelot straightened from his attentive crouch, both men fixing me with expressions of welcome recognition.
And gods above and below, they were nothing short of devastating in their masculine beauty—Arthur with his commanding presence and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through to one's soul, and Lancelot with his dark, rugged handsomeness and that confident smile that spoke of countless victories both on and off the battlefield.
The sight of them together, powerful and magnetic in the golden morning light, sent an unwelcome flutter through my chest that I quickly suppressed. Or, I tried to.
You were sent here to destroy them, I reminded myself. Not to admire them like a cat in heat!
Exactly.
I approached them with measured steps, adopting Lioran’s confident stride, even if my heart was racing. Once Lancelot took his leave, it was just Arthur and me.
"Lioran!" he said, giving me a large smile that indicated he was very happy to see me. As I watched him, he ran a hand towel across his face to sop up the sweat that was covering his forehead and hair.
The sun had climbed a little higher, bathing the training yard in its warmth. Then Arthur gripped the hem of his tunic and slipped it over his broad shoulders before dropping it unceremoniously on the ground.
Faced with his incredible physique, my eyes locked first onto the impressive breadth of his shoulders.
Then the contours of his arms, taking in every ridge and valley of muscle that had been earned through years of wielding sword and crown alike.
My gaze naturally spilled over his mountainous chest, and… I froze.
There, facing me, was a tattoo that stretched across his pectorals. A tattoo of a dragon. Its tail curled around his ribs while its wings stretched across his shoulders.
It was the same tattoo that had decorated his chest in the dream I continued to have—the one where I met him in the Hall of Lineages, surrounded by tombs. And he… and the long-dead kings…
My chest constricted as if an invisible hand had wrapped around my lungs, squeezing until each breath became a laborious struggle.
The air seemed to thicken around me, refusing to flow properly into my lungs.
Meanwhile, my heart hammered with such violence that I could feel the pulse thrumming in my temples, my throat, even behind my eyes.
How was it possible that I had dreamed of this tattoo before ever seeing it? The question pounded through my mind. I wasn't a seer. I didn't have abilities that allowed me to see and know things. And yet…
The tattoo was real. I'd seen it in my dreams. And that was a realization I couldn't stomach. Because if the tattoo was real—which it very clearly was—then the dream was not a dream at all, but a vision.
A vision of what? A potential future? Was it possible that…
No, I couldn't allow my thoughts to travel down that particular path, knowing what the dead kings did to me, followed by what Arthur did to me.
"You seem... surprised," Arthur ventured, his voice a low rumble that gripped me and reminded me he was still standing there, watching me, while everything I thought I knew was being ripped from me.
"Oh," I started, screaming at myself to act normally. "Your… tattoo," I pointed out with a forced smile. "I just… didn't realize you had one, my liege."
His expression shifted subtly as he glanced down and then nodded up at me once more. "A dragon in honor of Pendragon."
I swallowed hard, my heartbeat still floundering somewhere in my throat. "Yes. It's… it is very nice, my king."
"Thank you." He eyed me with a strange expression—perhaps because he didn't know what to make of my very odd reaction. He then focused on two training swords that leaned against a post nearby and walked over to retrieve them.
“Sir Lioran,” he continued, nodding. “Your performance in the Duel was... exceptional, and it was surprising.”
I bowed low, grateful for the moment to compose myself, and I forced thoughts of the tattoo out of my mind. I would have to dissect them later. “You honor me, Your Majesty.”
"No doubt, Lancelot has told you I've decided to personally train a handful of knights who have shown promise?"
"Yes, sire, Sir Lancelot did say as much."
Arthur nodded. "I have chosen only to train you."
"Only me?"
Arthur chuckled, a deep and melodious sound. It might have been the first time I'd heard him laugh. "You don't seem pleased."
I shook my head and then immediately nodded, suddenly wishing the ground beneath my feet would open up and swallow me whole. "I am… overly pleased, my liege. And while I am very flattered, I don't know what I've done to deserve such a gift."
"You defeated a man not only twice your size.
" Then he took me in from head to toe. "Perhaps thrice your size," he corrected himself with a small smile.
"But your magic is formidable." He paused.
"And, I admit, I am more than curious about your water magic.
I wish to learn from you as much as you can learn from me. "