CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
-GUIN-
Rain hammered the windows as another storm rolled through.
It was directly above Camelot now—lightning and thunder arriving in tandem, violent and immediate. The stone beneath my boots vibrated with each thunderclap, as if the castle itself were holding its breath.
Just as I reached for the latch on my chamber door, the water on the nearest windowpane twisted into a perfect spiral—tight and deliberate, as if drawn by an invisible fingertip.
I hadn’t summoned it.
My magic had answered the storm—unchecked, intimate, dangerous.
My emotions were still out of control, and here was the evidence. Irritated, I waved the pattern away with a sharp flick of my fingers, breath shallow as I scanned the corridor. No one in sight.
Once inside, I would ground myself—sink into ritual, reclaim control of my heart and my thoughts, silence the pull of the storm and the man I couldn’t stop thinking about.
I opened the door.
Lightning split the hall behind me—and in its white-hot glare, I saw her standing there.
Elenora.
She stood at the far end of the corridor, illuminated in silhouette like a spirit conjured from the thunder itself. Her presence was no accident. No one wandered these halls in this storm by chance—no one who didn't belong here, that is.
She walked toward me with her signature grace—fluid as quicksilver, deliberate as a huntress stalking prey, predatory in the way only those born to power can manage.
Each step was perfectly measured, her silk slippers making no sound against the stone floor, yet somehow I felt the weight of her approach, all the same.
The way she moved reminded me of water—deceptively gentle on the surface, yet carrying the promise of drowning depths beneath.
“A moment of your time, Sir Lioran?”
Alarm knifed through me. The timing. The smile. That expression in her eyes.
I didn’t flinch. “Of course,” I said, stepping aside, keeping the door conspicuously open behind her. Let the corridor bear witness: a knight receiving a courtesan with propriety, nothing more.
She glided inside my bedchamber, her eyes sliding over my austere furnishings, taking in the weapons, the lack of decoration, the discipline carved into every angle of the room.
As soon as I walked across to the window, strategically placing myself as far away from her as possible, she walked across the room and closed the door behind her.
“No trophies,” she observed as she turned around once more, taking stock of the room again. “No keepsakes. Most knights of rising rank surround themselves with symbols of their worth.” Her gaze returned to me. “But not you.”
“I value function over luxury."
“Practical.” She smiled faintly. Then she turned to the window, where the storm raged beyond the glass. “Water’s such a curious element. It yields and flows, yet drowns villages when unchecked. It responds to every force… yet never forgets what it is.”
That wasn’t idle poetry. It was pointed.
I didn’t respond.
She turned slowly, stepping away from the window and closer to me. “I pay attention to the court’s undercurrents, Sir Lioran. Not just who holds power—but how that power moves between people. Between eyes. Between silences.”
I remained perfectly still.
“And lately, I’ve noticed a particular current… between you and our First Knight.”
Her meaning was unmistakable, and even though my heart lurched into my throat and I suddenly felt ill, I schooled my expression.
“Sir Lancelot has been tasked with observing all participants in the trials," I explained in a monotone. "His attention is evaluative, nothing more.”
She tilted her head slightly, studying me with that smile that said she knew too much. “Perhaps. But I know Lance. I’ve known him in ways few have.”
The casual intimacy with which she spoke his name—Lance, not Sir Lancelot—hit me hard, settling deep in my chest with the weight of a blade sliding between ribs.
The familiarity in that single syllable spoke of shared history, of moments when formality had been stripped away along with armor and pretense.
My jaw clenched involuntarily as unwelcome images flickered through my mind—her hands on his skin, his mouth against her throat, her whispering his shortened name in the darkness as he pushed inside her.
I forced my breathing to remain steady, but something cold and sharp had lodged itself beneath my breastbone.
The rational part of my mind knew I had no claim to Lance—I knew that our stolen moments were dangerous indulgences that could destroy us both.
Yet hearing Elenora speak of him with such intimacy made my chest tighten with an emotion I refused to name.
Her smile widened. “And I know when something or someone has his attention.”
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the sharp lines of her face, the hunger behind her eyes. There was no pretense left—she wanted something from me. I just didn't know what, and that was the most concerning part.
“Your concern for Sir Lancelot’s attention is noted,” I said, measured. “But I assure you, there is nothing about me that would intrigue him.”
“Oh,” she laughed—low and real, not her courtly trill. “On the contrary, Sir Lioran. I think you might be the only thing that intrigues him.”
"I miss your meaning."
Lightning flashed again, illuminating her face in stark relief. In that moment, I saw something beyond the practiced seduction in her eyes—there was a sharp intelligence there that had been carefully concealed beneath layers of affected frivolity.
She stepped in close, and though I tried to move back, I found myself pressed against the stone wall.
I swallowed hard, unsure of what in the hell I should do.
Throw her out? Forcibly remove her if she wouldn't leave?
She closed the remaining distance between us until our faces were close enough to kiss.
Then she smiled, though the expression never reached her eyes. “We all wear masks, Sir Lioran. Some more literal than others.” She leaned in even closer, so close now that I could feel her breath against my cheek—warm, perfumed with herbs and something darker. “Yours is particularly... intricate.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Even though it sounded insane, this woman frightened me more than any of the knights did or could ever hope to. More than Arthur intimidated me even. I didn't know what it was about her, but raw power just emanated from her skin.
“Don’t you?” Her voice was soft as silk yet as sharp as a blade. Gooseflesh erupted along my arms. “I’ve been watching you. The way you observe everything while pretending not to.”
My pulse quickened. What in the world did she want?
“You remind me of myself,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper as she lifted a single finger, trailing it slowly from my temple down to my jaw. My heart about stopped and then started pounding overtime.
"I don't—"
“—someone playing a dangerous game in a court of predators.” She didn’t give me a chance to respond. “Strange, isn’t it? How men only see what they expect to see.”
“I d-don’t understand."
Her eyes gleamed. “Then let me spell it out for you. Lance stares at you every chance he gets and sees only a small, slender male knight with feminine features—and his body argues with what his mind accepts as real and true. And Arthur…” She leaned in again, this time up close to my ear, whispering. “Arthur dreams of you nightly.”
My breath hitched. “Dreams of me?”
She laughed then, finally stepping back and giving me space to breathe, which was a relief in and of itself.
“Well,” she said, cocking her head to the side, “he dreams not of you as Sir Lioran, of course, but of you as yourself—the beautiful woman with the white hair who pulled the sword from the stone.”
Her words hit me like a lightning bolt, the revelation driving through me with such devastating force that the world seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
The blood drained from my face in a rush, leaving me cold and dizzy, while my vision blurred at the edges as if I might faint right here.
Even my knees had gone wobbly, threatening to buckle, and I had to brace one trembling hand against the cool stone wall to keep myself upright as the magnitude of what she'd just revealed crashed over me in waves of panic and disbelief.
My fingers moved on instinct, reaching for the concealed dagger hidden beneath my tunic.
“Peace, sister,” Elenora said gently, raising empty hands as she approached me again. “If I wished to expose you, I would have done so a long time ago." She paused. "And if you notice, I did not.”
I wanted to demand answers—how she knew the truth, how long she'd known—but I held my tongue. Better to learn what she wanted from me first.
“I recognize another woman forced to play a man’s game,” she continued as she brought her long fingers to my shoulder.
Then she began trailing her hand down my chest with deliberate slowness.
Her hand brushed the thick tie at my collar.
The gambeson had been cinched tight for sparring; the knot resisted her at first, stiffened from sweat and strain.
She tugged again, slower this time, working her fingers beneath the binding until the knot gave with a soft snap.
She slid her fingers down the line of laces that held the padded armor closed. Each tug loosened the gambeson bit by bit, the heavy fabric relaxing away from my body. I didn't know why I didn't stop her.