CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE #2
"We will leave the horses here—it's not safe for them to continue.
" Even now, I could hear Nero's nervous snorting, see the way his ears flattened against his skull as he pulled against the reins.
The usually fearless destrier who had carried me through countless battles was prancing sideways, his dark eyes rolling white at the edges as he stared into the shadowed depths of the Whispering Wilds.
Beside him, Lioran's mount was faring no better, tossing its head and backing away from the treeline with small, frightened whinnies that echoed off the ancient oaks.
The horses always knew. Their instincts ran deeper than human reason, warning them of dangers that lurked beyond the veil.
I'd seen warhorses face down charging knights without flinching, yet none would willingly enter these woods.
The air here thrummed with something unnatural, something that made their primitive minds scream warnings their riders often ignored to their peril.
"Will the horses be safe here?" he asked as he untied the strap of the bag containing the glass orbs from his saddle and slung it across one shoulder.
I nodded. "Nothing is permitted to leave the forest; wards surrounding the perimeter make it so."
He offered me a warm smile. “Perhaps two hunters then will prove more effective than one, Sir Lancelot.”
His eagerness only irritated me further. “I hunt alone. Always have.”
“Yet here we are.”
I studied him more closely, expecting anger at my brusque demeanor—or at the very least, resentment. Instead, I found nothing but a pleasant countenance. No anger, no insult, no challenge, no submission.
Most young knights either trembled beneath my reputation or tried to rise above it. Lioran did neither. That unsettled me more than open hostility would have.
"Then let us begin,” I muttered, setting a brisk pace toward the forest. “Stay close. The trees shift when unobserved. Men have walked in circles for days, thinking they were headed straight.”
I strode ahead, blades brushing against my armor, twigs snapping beneath my boots. Still, I glanced back more often than I meant to. Why, I couldn’t say. To make sure he was still behind me? To make certain he hadn't lost his way? Or—worse—just to look at him?
No, it wasn't that.
Never that.
While I could admit that Lioran was the prettiest man I'd ever encountered—with features that would make court ladies envious and a grace that rivaled the finest sculptures in Arthur's statue garden—he remained fundamentally that: a man.
A beautiful one, certainly, with those striking eyes and that infuriatingly perfect smile, but a man nonetheless.
So, regardless of whatever strange magnetism seemed to pull at my attention whenever he was near, my desires had always run in one clear direction. I was a man who sought the soft curves and gentle warmth of women, who found satisfaction in silk and perfume rather than steel and leather.
That truth should have been enough to silence whatever restlessness Lioran's presence stirred within me. Should have been.
“The Wilds respond to fear,” I continued, pushing aside a branch that bent too far, too eagerly, into my path. “Control your thoughts, and the forest grows less hostile.”
“You speak as though it’s alive."
“Everything magical is alive."
As we moved deeper into the twisted pathways of the Whispering Wilds, I felt the uncomfortable gravity of divided loyalties settling over me.
The weight of Arthur's explicit instructions pressed against my conscience with each step we took into the shadowed undergrowth.
He'd tasked me with watching Lioran carefully for any signs of potential rebellion—to observe his reactions, test his responses, and determine if Carlisle and the ambitious lords of the North had somehow gotten to him.
I should have been systematically analyzing every display of his magic, asking him pointed, probing questions designed to weigh his true allegiance and uncover any hidden sympathies he might harbor for Arthur's enemies.
My duty was clear: assess whether this knight posed a threat to the throne I'd sworn my life to protect.
Instead, as the ancient oaks creaked ominously around us and the mist thickened between the gnarled roots, I found myself wanting only the comfortable quiet that had settled between us.
The steady rhythm of our footsteps on the moss-covered ground, the occasional rustle of leaves overhead, and the subtle awareness of his presence just behind my left shoulder—it all felt unexpectedly peaceful in a way that made no tactical sense whatsoever.
“There,” I said, pointing toward movement in the foliage. A moment later, the shaking stopped. Whatever had been there had moved on. “Did you see it?"
"Yes."
We both slowed.
"Watch the trees—they’ll try to mislead us.”
Mist curled at our feet like a beckoning hand, cool and alive. I took the lead, sword drawn, but still found my gaze drifting toward Lioran, as if my instincts didn’t quite trust the space behind me to be unguarded—not because I feared him, but because I didn’t want to lose sight of him.
“The markings on the trees shift. But moss always grows facing Camelot. If you lose your way, follow the moss.”
“Interesting.”
“There is something here,” I added, kneeling to touch a low-hanging branch that, upon further inspection, had been broken by something.
Lioran was quick to stand beside me. "And from the looks of that branch—it's something large."
I shot him a look, annoyed by how his words mirrored my own thinking, and for an instant, our eyes met. That same quiet certainty lingered in his—calm, composed, utterly unshaken. There was no fear, no bravado, no affectation. Just focus. And it upset me.
Gods above! What was it about this bloody man that unsettled me so?
All he had to do was look at me, and I found myself annoyed.
As we stepped beneath the canopy’s threshold, the forest swallowed the sun. That old silence fell—the one that made your ears ache if you listened too long. A silence that filled with whispers if you dared listen deeper.
Lioran moved beside me—quiet, smooth, as if he belonged here.
And despite myself, I felt the edge of tension within me easing.
There was something reassuring about him.
Maybe it was the way he listened—to me, to the forest, to everything around him—as though he was part of it all, rather than passing through it like the rest of us.
Whatever else he was, Lioran... was not afraid.
And that made me uneasy.
“The Wilds respond to intention as much as action,” I continued as we moved through a dense tangle of underbrush.
“Enter with conquest in your heart, and the paths will lead you astray. Enter with respect, and the forest may guide you.” I wasn't sure why I felt the need to continue speaking, but it seemed now that I'd started, I couldn't stop.
“Is that something Arthur taught you?”
I shook my head. “No. This knowledge comes from before.”
“Before?”
I nodded, though I rarely spoke of my childhood. It was the hardest time of my life—living purely to survive. All I had known was struggle, hunger, and sickness. And then Arthur had found me, and he'd offered me something I'd never had before: hope. “From my childhood. Before Arthur found me.”
"Arthur found you?"
I nodded. "In the streets, living in filth."
Lioran's eyes widened with obvious surprise. “You weren’t born to nobility?”
“Far from it.” And still, I kept speaking.
"I thought all knights were of noble birth?"
"Usually, such is the case. But in my case…
no." I cleared my throat, and at the sound of silence, continued.
"I was from a similar background to yours, perhaps worse.
From humble origins. Raised far from the halls of Camelot, with only shadows for company, my name forged in challenges instead of luxury. "
"I admit, I am surprised."
I nodded. "My father was a foot soldier. He died in disgrace—accused of cowardice. My mother worked as a washerwoman.”
It had been a hard life. A life I’d buried beneath polished steel and knighthood. A life I'd rather forget.
"You have come such a long way. I never would have guessed—"
"—because I don't speak of it. It is information I keep close.
" I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the fact that I was sharing too much.
Furthermore, I didn't understand what was driving me to say as much as I had.
Usually, I was a man of few words. At the moment, though, I appeared to be incapable of shutting my own mouth.
I blamed Lioran and his blasted way of making a man want to spill his secrets.
"Anyway," I continued, "Arthur saw beyond all that. He believes birth determines where we begin, not where we finish.”
Lioran nodded solemnly. “An honorable way of thinking."
We moved deeper into the Wilds. I watched him walk—light on his feet, his awareness attuned to everything: the weight of the air, the way branches curved toward or away from us, the faint tension beneath the mossy earth. It wasn’t just training. It was instinct.
“Keep alert,” I told him, though I didn't need to. For some strange reason, I didn't like the sound of the silence stretching between us. “The forest might be beautiful, but it's never harmless.”
He nodded and gave me a quick smile, and that was when I saw it—that spark of something in his eyes.
I could have sworn it was attraction or perhaps admiration.
No, it was more than that—there was desire there in his gaze.
It was the way his eyes lingered on me—just a touch too long. And too ardently.
The man desired me—it was obvious. And I did not know how to feel about it.
“Tell me about your mother, Sir Lancelot,” he said, then seemed to remember himself and his station compared to mine, adding quickly, “If you care to and you don't mind my asking?”
I did mind. I usually minded. I should have minded.
So, why didn't I?