CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
-GUIN-
The next morning, I received another summons from Arthur.
When I joined him in the royal practice yard, he was already mounted on his massive black warhorse, Cabal, the beast pawing at the ground impatiently. Several pages milled about, their curious glances following me as I approached.
Arthur was dressed in the garments of a king who had not forgotten the feel of reins in his hands.
A dark riding tunic hugged the breadth of his shoulders, its edges embroidered with subtle thread that caught the morning light like the suggestion of scales.
A half-cloak, pinned with a dragon-shaped clasp, fell to mid-thigh—short enough not to tangle with his mount’s stride.
His boots were dusted from earlier rides, his sword hanging easily at his hip, the leather scabbard worn smooth from use. No crown adorned him; only the wind combed through his hair as if it, too, recognized its king. He was incredibly handsome.
Gods, what sort of person was I? Only yesterday, I'd melted against Lance, my body singing beneath his touch, my mouth eager for more. Now here I stood, heart hammering at the mere sight of Arthur astride his horse, sunlight transforming him into something out of legend.
My enemy. The tyrant I'd been sent to destroy.
I was getting soft.
And I hated it.
Hated how my pulse quickened. How my breath caught. How my fingers itched to trace the hard line of his jaw, to discover if the muscle beneath felt as solid as it looked.
Disgust twisted in my gut. Lance's kiss still burned on my lips. And yet, twenty-four hours—not even a full day later—I was cataloging Arthur's features like a lovesick fool, drinking in the sight of him the way a starving woman eyes a feast.
I was supposed to be focused. Disciplined. Merlin would be ashamed. Corvin would be ashamed.
I was ashamed.
“Sir Lioran,” Arthur said, his voice pulling me from the storm of my thoughts. “Ride with me.”
It wasn’t a request.
I nodded and turned at the sound of hooves, watching as a stable boy brought Shade out to meet me. I was more than glad to see her and gave her a good pat down.
“She's a fine-looking mare,” Arthur said.
"Thank you, my liege," I answered with a smile as I mounted Shade and followed Arthur from the training yard.
We passed through the castle's outer bailey, our horses' hooves ringing against the worn cobblestones that had witnessed centuries of royal processions.
Guards in gleaming gold and red armor straightened at our approach.
They stepped aside with crisp military precision, their eyes following Arthur with the kind of reverence reserved for legends made flesh.
The massive iron portcullis groaned upward as we neared the eastern gate, its ancient mechanisms protesting.
Above us, the stone archway bore Arthur's dragon insignia carved deep into the weathered granite—a reminder to all who passed beneath that they traveled under the protection and authority of the King.
As we cleared the gate's shadow, I felt the subtle shift that always accompanied leaving Camelot's walls.
The oppressive weight of centuries-old stone and accumulated power lifted from my shoulders, replaced by the wild, untamed energy of the countryside beyond.
Here, Arthur's magic felt different—less contained, more primal, as if the land itself responded to his presence.
Arthur set a brisk pace, his back straight, shoulders squared beneath his crimson cloak. I kept a respectful distance behind him, watching how the rising sun caught in his hair, bringing out strands of silver among the dark gold.
We entered Thornhallow Forest, and soon the hush of the woods descended on us, ancient and quiet. Light filtered through in flickering patches, like secrets whispered by the trees. We rode for ten or so minutes, deeper and higher, until the trees began to thin.
Arthur remained silent throughout our journey, his profile regal and unreadable as he navigated the trails with the confidence of someone who knew these woods intimately.
Finally, he slowed Cabal to a measured walk, then to a halt.
A clearing opened before us like a hidden sanctuary—an overlook perched high above the sprawling valley that stretched endlessly toward the horizon.
Thick fog curled languidly along the valley floor, blurring the boundaries between earth and sky, reality and dream.
Through this veil, in the very far distance, the dark shapes of the Standing Stones pierced upward through the cloud cover.
It then dawned on me how far I truly was from Annwyn. I had ridden a very long way.
Arthur dismounted without a word.
I followed, boots crunching softly on moss. We were alone. No guards. No courtiers. Here, away from the watchful eyes of his court, with nothing but rolling hills and ancient trees as witnesses, Arthur seemed both more dangerous and more human than ever before.
“I come here,” he said, quiet now as he turned to look at me, “when the crown gets too heavy.”
He stood still, turning to look out at the valley below, a gentle breeze stirring his hair.
"It's beautiful," I admitted.
“This is the only place in Logres where you can see both realms clearly." His voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it. "All of Logres and Annwyn in the distance."
He stared toward the border, and for a moment the crown slipped—not from his brow, but from his expression. The king gave way to the man.
“I wonder sometimes what might have been. If Merlin had remained here. If we’d found another way.” He glanced at me. “Have you ever wondered the same?”
The question stunned me—its honesty, and that he’d asked it of me, a knight he barely knew. Someone so far beneath him. Perhaps this was a test?
“I imagine such thoughts weigh heavily on any king,” I said carefully.
Arthur gave a dry laugh. “Diplomatic, Lioran. But I asked what you thought—not what you think I want to hear.”
I looked out across the valley and took a deep breath. “I think,” I said slowly, “that great men create great divides—when they can’t reconcile their visions. And the land bears the cost.”
Arthur turned to me, his blue eyes searching mine. "You speak as though you've witnessed such divisions before."
“Haven’t we all?” I replied with a shrug, trying to cover myself if I'd said too much. “Every village has its factions. Every family has its feuds.”
“Yes, I suppose that is true."
Arthur stood at the cliff’s edge, a silhouette of steel and solitude. Without crown or ceremony, he looked younger. Not lighter—just… less guarded.
“When I was a boy of sixteen or so, Merlin brought me here. Just after I'd pulled the sword from the stone… Excalibur.” His voice carried no bitterness. Only memory. “Merlin said a good king must see beyond his own walls. That our realm doesn’t exist in isolation.”
The irony wasn’t lost on either of us—Merlin’s lesson, now shadowed by a brewing war that everyone was certain was on the horizon.
“Do you miss it?” I asked, too quickly. “The time before you and Merlin became enemies?”
Arthur glanced at me sharply, then his expression softened as a sigh escaped him.
“More than anyone knows.” He picked up a stone and tossed it into the mist. “We built Camelot together. His magic. My sword. Our vision.”
I followed his gaze toward the Standing Stones. Home. Or what had become home in the last three years.
“What changed?” I asked, knowing I shouldn’t, but I couldn't seem to stop myself.
“We both believed we were right.” He paused and then chuckled without humor, shaking his head. “That’s the most dangerous kind of certainty.”
I said nothing. There was nothing to say. Instead, I felt a strange sort of empathy for Arthur. He just seemed… lonely somehow. Lost.
“Do you know why I outlawed magic, Lioran?"
I shook my head. "No, sire."
"Have you ever wondered why?"
"Yes, sire."
"Then I shall tell you. Have you heard of the town of Eldenvale in the North?”
I nearly choked on my own tongue. “No, sire,” I lied, my heart now pounding in my chest.
“That's not surprising, for it’s gone.” He paused. “Burned to the ground.”
I was suddenly afraid of where this conversation was headed, but I schooled my expression. Pretended who and what I was playing at. Maintained my role.
"Eldenvale was a farming village," he continued. "Perhaps home to three hundred people—small by most people's standards." He paused again and kicked a rock with the toe of one boot. "Gone now."
He crouched, plucking a wildflower, and rolled the stem between his fingers.
"What happened to it?"
He looked back at me and gave me a sad smile. “There was word of a witch living there."
The flower crumbled in his hand. Dust on the wind.
"What happened?" I asked in a small voice, though I already knew the answer because I was the witch in this story. The guards had come for me.
Arthur’s face darkened, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“This supposed witch was just a young girl.”
His voice was steady, but the tension beneath it vibrated like a blade in a sheath.
“I didn't believe her to be a witch and thought nothing of it.
Until one day there came word of a squabble in the town.
Apparently, this girl had murdered a shopkeeper.
" Arthur's jaw tightened, but mine was tighter.
“I sent my guards to investigate, and when they arrested the girl, she managed to escape.”
“Then what happened?”
“The guards followed the girl to her home,” he continued, breathing in deeply. "This is all second-hand, of course, as I wasn't there myself." I nodded, and he continued. "When they arrived, the girl attacked them. Drowned them, as I was told."
I felt anger start to well up within me. That wasn't what had happened at all. The guards had killed my parents before I'd ever attacked them.