CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #2
"As Lioran continues to do." Each trial should have eliminated him—his modest background, his lack of prestigious training, his youth, the smallness of his person.
Yet he'd persisted. Thrived, even. The Summoning had showcased raw talent.
The Labyrinth had revealed mental fortitude beyond his years.
The Duel had demonstrated skill that belied his size.
"If his loyalties do lie with the north..." Lance left the thought unfinished.
"Then I'll have misjudged him entirely." The possibility sat heavy in my chest. "But until he proves otherwise, he has my support."
Lance nodded but said nothing more. It was no secret that he'd doubted Lioran just as everyone else had. "Speaking of the scrawny underdog, have you changed your mind then about Lioran?"
Lance swallowed hard. "I will admit I was surprised to watch him best Balan." Then he cocked his head to the side as he studied the young knight in question. "But that doesn't change his small frame. He just appears weak—"
"—he is anything but weak. Wouldn't you say he's proven himself by now?"
Lance nodded. "I suppose he has. Mordred's plan of placing him up against Balan in order to get rid of him seems to have backfired." Then he laughed.
"No one ever imagined Lioran would best Balan," I agreed, nodding at my own surprise. "And on that front alone, I believe Lioran would make an excellent Knight of the Round Table."
"Do you?" Lance seemed surprised.
I nodded. "Everyone has and will continue to underestimate him. He could use that to his advantage, just as he did with Balan."
"True." But Lance did not appear wholly convinced.
The truth was—Lioran's battle with Balan had cemented him as my favorite of the knights, perhaps because he was the underdog. I could only hope his loyalties did not lie with his homeland and with Carlisle.
"We shall see how Lioran fares in the rest of the trials," I finished, watching Carlisle closely as he watched Lioran even more closely. Whatever his intentions, the north's interest in Lioran warranted attention. Close and strict attention.
It was one reason I’d chosen to train Lioran myself—not just to hone his abilities, but to keep him within reach. Within earshot. Within control. And I was not entirely convinced he didn't harbor some insight regarding the woman with the white hair. Guinevere.
At the thought of her name, the dragon sang out in my mind: She has been stolen from us! Taken!
I had to swallow down the beast's anger and frustration as I did not know what more to do about the problem known as Guinevere.
I had not heard a word from The Fox. It was as though he had simply disappeared.
And the only avenue that might have led somewhere—Blodeuwynn—was now a dead end.
Perhaps I might never see the white-haired temptress again.
Such would be very good for my kingship but staggering otherwise.
We must find her. She is our mate.
The dragon was insistent. And I had to constantly keep a separation between its blinding need to claim Guinevere and my own interest in her. I could not allow the dragon to influence me—to make decisions it had no business making.
Of course, if I never saw Guinevere again, that would certainly take care of the issue. Perhaps with time, I would be able to forget her? Perhaps time would be the answer to this driving obsession that claimed me both day and night?
We will never forget her.
Around us, the court continued its careful dance. Factions arranged themselves with calculated symmetry. Gold changed hands openly as wagers were placed. Baron Wessex loudly declared his faith in Agravaine, while Lady Melisande quietly handed off a heavy purse in Lioran’s name.
“They play their games,” I said quietly to Lance, “convinced they understand the stakes.”
But none of them did.
This wasn’t just a test of magic. This wasn’t about chivalry or bloodlines or showmanship.
This was preparation for war.
A war that had already begun—in shadows, in whispers, in dreams haunted by white hair and violet eyes.
A war with Merlin.
It was the only way to cage this beast—to ensure that it did not affect me the way it had my father.
Merlin was my only answer. For I would not—under any circumstances—take Blodeuwyn as my queen.
No, I needed Merlin's magic—his ability to seal the dragon back into the dragonmark.
He was the only one with magic that was potent enough.
And you think Merlin will simply acquiesce to your demands if he becomes your prisoner? I thought to myself.
Yes. Men, when faced with torture, will do most anything.
“They do play their games,” Lance said with a quick nod as he pulled me back to the current moment unfolding around me.
Below, across the courtyard, the candidates gathered—adjusting armor, checking weapons, exchanging quiet, measured words.
I watched them carefully. Their faces betrayed a complex tapestry of emotions: anticipation gleamed in some eyes, while anxiety tightened the jaws of others.
A few paced restlessly, rechecking straps and buckles, while others stood perfectly still, as if purposely conserving their energy.
All of them stood on the cusp of transformation.
The Hunt Trial would be a difficult test—not merely of their combat prowess or magical aptitude but of something deeper: their ability to cooperate under pressure. They would be paired into teams, forced to rely on one another. That was the true purpose of this trial.
Because when my Round Table was complete, these knights would not stand as individuals—but as a unified force. Their strengths would cover each other’s weaknesses. Their magic would weave together into something greater than the sum of its parts.
They would have to be able to work together, as one. Because when the time came, it would not be bandits or beasts they faced. It would be Merlin.
A vicious wind suddenly blew between Lance and me, and I turned in the direction of the wind.
I found myself looking at the far-off Whispering Wilds, where they loomed in the distance, stretching like a dark wound across the landscape.
The ancient trees bent toward one another in the morning breeze, whispering secrets.
And I thought—again—of her.
Bloduewyn.
I’d walked away from her, from her price, from her poison—but doubt still lingered. Yes, I had a name: Guinevere. And yes, I had seen Guinevere's beautiful face in flame and dream alike. But was that enough?
Was a name enough to find her—enough to scry her location?
The question gnawed at me like a persistent ache because I certainly didn't possess the abilities required for such workings.
Could Mordred perform such a feat? Perhaps.
The man's abilities were considerable, his knowledge of ritual magic encyclopedic.
But then the question became far more treacherous: could I take this information to Mordred without exposing myself completely?
Doing so would mean I'd have to tell him more about her—who she was, why I was so desperately insistent on finding her.
The problem with Mordred was that he would ask too many probing questions.
He would dissect my request with the precision of a scholar examining a rare specimen, and I absolutely could not allow him to discover my true reasons for wanting her found.
Yes, Mordred served me faithfully, but I harbored no illusions about his ultimate loyalties—they lay with magic itself, not with any particular master.
Not to mention the practical obstacles that scrying presented.
Such magic typically required something personal belonging to the target—a strand of hair, a piece of clothing, something that carried their essence.
I possessed neither. The vision had shown me only her face, beautiful and terrible in its clarity, but had left me with nothing tangible to anchor a magical search.
The more I considered it, turning the problem over in my mind like a puzzle with no solution, the more disheartened I became.
"Welcome to your next trial," Mordred called out to the knights assembled.
"The Hunt Trial. In this trial, your true mettle will be unveiled,” he intoned in a voice smooth as polished stone.
Then he glanced behind himself at a table covered with a navy-blue velvet cloth.
Upon the cloth sat numerous glass orbs that were small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.
“Each of these orbs contains a transformative mist—the essence of creation tethered by your magic," Mordred continued.
I looked at the glass balls with interest—within each, a strange, glowing mist swirled. Mordred approached the table before selecting one of the spheres and lifting it to eye level. The mist, visible through the glass, shifted in color and shape as though responding to his closeness.
“Each of you will infuse these vessels with your magic. Focus and allow your arcane power to channel into the mist. What lies within shall become a reflection of your magic, a creature of your own creation.” He paused to take a breath.
"Once the creatures have been created in your orbs, they will be released into the Whispering Wilds, and you will be responsible for collecting them. "
The knights all looked at one another, obviously surprised, and some appeared a bit confused by Mordred's words.
“The intent behind the Hunt Trial is not only to locate the creations once they are released, but to do so in pairs,” Mordred continued with a brief nod.
“Yes, you shall be paired with another knight.
" There was some chatter about this—some knights pleased to find themselves with a partner, others (like Kay) displeased.
"Working as teams, you will confront beasts forged not by your own hand—but by your fellow knights. It is through the synergy of such teams that you will learn to become reciprocal allies, equal partners. Such coordination is imperative for any who seek a place at the Round Table.”