CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
-LANCE-
The Hunt Trial
“Sir Lioran,” I said flatly as I readied Nero's saddle and my squire held his reins. “It seems we’re to hunt together.”
Lioran turned to face me, surprise flickering briefly across his features before he recovered into that calm, unreadable mask he always wore.
He took the reins from his squire, then led his steed up to mine, watching me as I readied Nero.
The early light caught his eyes, and for the briefest moment, I was…
unsettled. There was something in his gaze that struck me as off, too soft, too knowing.
It had always been the problem with Lioran—and the reason I’d advised Arthur against him.
Regardless of his magical aptitude, he looked wrong.
Too small… No, it wasn't his small stature—or it wasn't just that.
It was more that he was… too delicate. Too fragile.
Too... feminine. Yes! That was it! He was entirely too feminine to look the part of a Knight of the Round Table.
Knights of the Round Table weren't meant to glide across a field like wind over water; they were meant to thunder across battlefields like the very wrath of the gods made manifest, to dominate through overwhelming force and intimidation, to strike bone-deep fear into the hearts of their enemies by sheer presence alone—before swords were even drawn from their sheaths.
We were supposed to be living legends, walking embodiments of Arthur's power and authority, each of us a testament to the crown's ability to forge ordinary men into something greater, something terrible and beautiful in our capacity for violence.
And Lioran didn't thunder across anything—not training yards, not even the simple stone corridors of Camelot itself.
He moved with an almost graceful quality that made me grind my teeth in frustration.
Where other knights announced their presence with the heavy clank of mail and the purposeful strike of boot against stone, Lioran seemed to float, his footsteps so light they barely registered above the ambient sounds of castle life.
Everything about his presence whispered of something dainty, graceful, almost delicate. It was as if he'd been crafted from moonbeams and morning mist rather than steel and determination. Even the way he handled his weapons spoke of finesse over force, of precision over raw power.
This wasn't the language of war that knights were meant to speak. This was something else entirely, something that made my warrior's instincts rebel against the very sight of him.
Arthur seemed to believe Lioran’s size was an advantage. But I didn't and couldn’t see it that way. Knighthood wasn’t about elegance. It was about awe. About pride. About the kind of fear that pressed a man’s spine into the dirt before a blade had even been drawn.
And Lioran—Gods help him—was none of those things.
He didn’t command attention; he invited questions.
His slight frame, his large eyes, the softness of his face, his careful manner—they all undermined the image we’d worked so hard to build.
Among our ranks, he looked less like a knight and more like a court page who’d wandered in wearing stolen armor.
How could anyone trust him to hold the line when the storm came?
“I'm honored to be your partner, Sir Lancelot,” he replied, offering a polite nod as he placed the three glass orbs meant to ensnare the magical beasts into a pack that he then strapped to his saddle.
“Don’t be.” My tone was sharper than intended. The irritation I’d been nursing spilled too easily past my teeth. Lioran appeared taken aback—something that annoyed me even further, though I could not say why. “This wasn’t my idea.”
"I see."
I adjusted the strap on my hunting knife with unnecessary force, the leather of my gloves creaking as I pulled it tighter.
The crisp morning air bit at the back of my neck, carrying the scents of pine and damp loam—the smell of the forest. Usually, I would find comfort in it, but something about this man was setting me off this morning, though he'd done nothing to warrant my attitude against him.
Birds sang overhead, blissfully unaware of the tension festering within me.
“Try to keep up,” I continued, jerking my chin toward the tree line. "The Whispering Wilds are not for the faint of heart."
"I will do my best."
“And don’t allow these beasts to frighten or intimidate you—I do not intend to return empty-handed.”
Even as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. But I couldn’t stop myself. Something about Lioran set me on edge—and it wasn’t just his youth or his pretty face.
He was just wrong. And his wrongness bothered me.
It always had, to tell the truth, but today it bothered me even more than usual.
I'd written him off when he'd first arrived in Camelot—I’d thought him simply a noble’s son playing knight until bruises made him think better of it.
I’d seen a hundred like him over the years, boys who crumbled the first time a sword left them breathless.
But Lioran hadn’t crumbled. And he was no noble's son. He had come from humble beginnings, just as I had. Perhaps it was that connection that now irritated me? Perhaps I didn't want to be reminded of my beginnings?
Regardless, he'd endured the Labyrinth. He'd prevailed in the Duel. His water magic, while delicate, was devastating. But was it enough? Magic had a way of balancing the scales; I knew that. I’d seen it before.
But somehow, I'd never truly respected it—not until I watched this wisp of a knight dismantle a man twice his size.
It irked me.
And though I wouldn’t admit it, it fascinated me, too.
"It will be perhaps a twenty-minute ride through Thornhallow before we reach the mouth of the Wilds," I said as I mounted Nero.
Lioran just nodded as he mounted his own steed. I then spurred Nero forward with perhaps more force than necessary, and we were off at a brisk pace across the manicured grounds of Camelot.
The rhythmic thunder of hooves against the ground should have been soothing to me—it always had been before.
I'd ridden this path countless times, usually finding peace in the familiar cadence, the way Nero's powerful stride ate up the distance between Thornhallow and the mouth of the Wilds.
But today, the steady beat only seemed to amplify the restless energy coursing through me.
I said nothing for a long while, my jaw clenched as I tried to lose myself in the mechanical sounds of travel—the creak of leather, the soft jingle of tack, the whisper of wind through Nero's mane.
Usually, these rides cleared my head, washed away whatever frustrations had built up during court or training.
The simple act of moving forward, of leaving the political machinations and endless ceremonies behind, had always been my refuge.
But it didn't work. Not today.
My thoughts remained as tumultuous as they'd been in the courtyard, circling endlessly around the enigma riding silently beside me, neither of us saying anything.
Every few moments, I found myself stealing glances at Lioran, studying the way he sat his horse with that same unsettling composure, as if nothing in the world could truly disturb him.
When we reached the perimeter of the Whispering Wilds, I was surprised—I had not realized twenty minutes had gone by. And yet they had—all in silence.
My eyes immediately fell to the warning stone that stood in front of the path that led into the Wilds.
It was a jagged slab of granite half-buried in the earth, leaning as though something deeper in the woods had tried to drag it down over the centuries.
Moss clung to its base, but nothing living dared to grow directly against its face. Not even weeds.
Across the front of the stone, runes had been carved so deeply they looked gouged rather than etched—curving sigils.
The markings did not belong to Camelot or any known kingdom.
They were older, shaped by hands that understood magic in a way mortals had forgotten.
At eye level, the most prominent symbol was a circle split by a jagged line, like a wound through stone.
Some said it represented the boundary between realms. Others said it was a promise that the forest would not release what it claimed.
At the top of the stone, hammered into place with blackened iron nails, hung a weathered talisman—twisted roots braided with horsehair and bound around a small wooden charm carved into the shape of a snarling creature.
Someone—likely a villager—had tied red string around the upper corner of the stone, the color faded but unmistakable.
Red was a warning. Red was blood. Red meant don’t go any farther.
Just beyond the stone, the forest opened its mouth, a dark corridor between ancient trees that leaned too close together, their trunks bowed inward. The air changed there—colder, heavier, thick with something metallic that tasted like old magic and older danger.
No birds sang in those branches. No insects hummed. Even the light seemed to falter, dimming into a greenish cast as if unsure it was welcome.
Even the bravest knights of Camelot knew that the warning stone did not exaggerate.
It understated. For everything beyond it belonged not to Camelot, and not even entirely to the mortal world, but to the deep magic that had rooted itself in the soil long before Camelot rose—and had no intention of letting anyone trespass lightly.
I dismounted and tied Nero to the large post standing there—the demarcation between the Wilds and Thornhallow. It was the mark between safety and the horrors that lived within the forest.
"Are you ready?" I asked as I glanced up at Lioran.
"I am," he responded, absorbing my brusqueness without offense.