CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX #2
Sleep would not return—not tonight. Not with her scent still lingering in my memory, the weight of Excalibur's betrayal throbbing like an old wound, and the ever-present threat of the dragon.
I could feel the fucking thing now, that ancient presence stirring restlessly beneath my skin, drawn by the turbulence of my thoughts. The tattoo across my chest and back pulsed with heat—the dragon's fire.
I pressed my palms against the cool stone of the window frame, letting the chill seep into my heated skin. The dragon stirred again, restless, eager. It fed on my frustrations, my fears, the growing cracks in the perfect control I'd spent so many years constructing.
"I will defeat you," I whispered.
If it was possible for a dragon to laugh, then that is exactly what it did.
-LANCE-
I knew I shouldn't have arranged a patrol with Lioran, but I had no choice. I had to speak with him.
The ramparts crowned the castle like a vast stone spine, stretching the full length of the outer walls and circling Camelot in an unbroken ring of watchful height.
Up here, the wind always felt sharper—cleaner—carrying with it the scents of hearth smoke, horse sweat, and distant pine from Thornhallow Forest.
A narrow walkway ran along the top of the wall, paved with worn flagstones smoothed by centuries of boots.
Some stones dipped where countless patrols had passed; others bore shallow grooves from sword points dragged absentmindedly along their edges by restless sentries.
The walkway was just wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder.
To the outer side, the parapet rose waist-high, a crenellated barrier of solid stone.
Its merlons—those squared blocks of defense—threw long, rhythmic shadows across the walkway, while the gaps between them offered narrow, purposeful views of the surrounding lands: the training yard below, the village roofs clustered like rough-cut slate, the rolling fields, and farther still, the dark smudge of the forest that marked the start of Camelot’s borders.
"It's a lovely day," Lioran offered.
Every step I took seemed to whisper: fool, fool, fool.
My heart shouldn’t have raced when our shoulders brushed in a narrow bend of the walkway. I shouldn’t have noticed how the sunlight caught in his eyes.
"Yes," I answered, dropping my attention.
This was a place of vigilance. But it could also be a place of secrets traded in low voices.
A place where kings came to think and soldiers came to forget.
From the ramparts, Camelot lay open to the eye—every rooftop, every courtyard, every road in and out of the city.
From here, one could see the kingdom Arthur ruled and the shadows gathering at its edges.
The ramparts were not merely stone and mortar.
They were the castle’s spine, its shield, its quiet, patient witness to every triumph and every downfall that walked its walls.
As we walked, the wind cut sharper, snapping at my cloak and worrying the hair at my temples. I didn’t slow. The height never bothered me; the cold never bit the way it should. But Lioran kept glancing down at the courtyard far below as if the stones were waiting to swallow him whole.
The wall-walk stretched ahead, long and narrow, crenels dividing sunlight into sharp bands across the stone. Below, Camelot stirred: guards changing shifts, squires dragging buckets to the stables, smoke curling from cookfires.
We reached the small parapet door tucked beneath an arch—the sort of narrow entry most men overlook unless they patrol these walls as often as I did. Before I knew what I was doing or where I was going, I pushed it open and gestured for him to enter.
“Here.”
The door shut behind us with a dull thud, and the world changed in an instant. The wind fell silent. The air grew still. Even the light softened, filtering through dust motes in muted gold.
He hesitated on the top stair before following me down. The stairwell was tight—too tight—and I felt him close behind me, his breath catching now and then as though he didn’t trust the coils of shadow or the press of stone.
“Careful,” I said over my shoulder. “These steps like to twist ankles if you rush them.”
“I’m not rushing.”
We emerged into the upper gallery, light slanting across the floor in long bars from the narrow windows.
The corridor opened into an archway carved with vines and robed figures.
Beyond it, the cloister revealed itself—pale stone columns stretching in a long row, the air cooler here, almost reverent. And past the arches: the garden.
A square of green sheltered by the walls. A little fountain murmuring at its center. Beds of herbs and spring blooms stirred in a restless breeze. It always smelled of mint and lavender here, even in winter. A strange, comforting place.
Lioran stepped forward, the tension in his shoulders easing as though the cloister itself exhaled for him.
“This is where I come to think,” I said quietly, moving to stand beside him. “Or to breathe. Camelot can crush a man if he doesn’t take moments like these.”
He breathed in the garden air slowly, as if it grounded him. As if it mattered.
“The eastern cloister was built by Arthur’s grandfather,” I continued, grateful for the distraction of a history lesson as we neared the covered walkway. “He brought artisans from across the sea to carve these panels from ancient myths.”
Lioran paused to study the carvings with genuine interest. His slender fingers hovered just above the stone, as if reluctant to touch something so sacred.
There was a reverence in his stillness—rare among knights, who often saw only ornament where story once lived.
But it was his hands that held my attention—too fine, too delicate.
Fingers that could have belonged to a woman.
When he stopped in front of the panel depicting the Lady of the Lake, something in his posture shifted. Subtle but telling. A tension like a string drawn too tight. Most would have missed it.
I did not.
“The Lady of the Lake,” I said, watching his face.
“Yes,” he replied quietly, eyes still fixed on the carving.
“I assume you’ve heard the legends?”
He turned to me then, offering a small smile. “Yes—but please, remind me.”
Then he turned back to the panel, and suddenly, I felt unbelievably large beside him. Towering. He was just so damned… small. Fragile, almost.
“They say she appears only to those destined for greatness... or terrible responsibility.”
His expression didn’t change, but I saw it—the faint quickening of breath, the way his shoulders squared against something unseen. Almost as if he were afraid.
“Do you believe such stories?” he asked, eyes still on the Lady.
“I’ve seen enough to know legends often hide truth—twisted, disguised, but still there.”
We walked on in silence, the stone path giving way to soft grass. A trellis draped with climbing roses arched overhead. At the far end of the path, we paused at the reflecting pool where pale lilies had just begun to bloom.
The surface rippled faintly, throwing our reflections in shimmers.
Mine, solid. Familiar.
Lioran’s, blurred. As though the water itself struggled to hold him. Strange.
“Do you ever wish for change, Lance?” he asked then—softly, unexpectedly.
I met his eyes—not in the water, but directly—and found myself unable to look away.
"More with each passing day."
"As do I."
We stood in silence then, watching the water lilies drift on invisible currents. Their delicate white petals floated like secrets, unfolding slowly to the morning sun.
Our confession lingered in the air between us—ungrasped, but unmistakable.
The weight of it settled into my bones, unexpected yet undeniable.
Beside me, Lioran remained still, carved in light and shadow like a figure from myth.
The space between us felt vast at the same time that it felt intimate, filled with so many things I was sure we wanted to say but couldn't.
"I admit," Lioran began, looking up at me, "I was surprised when you requested I help you patrol—I thought that was the job of the King's Guard?"
Of course, he would have seen through my silly excuse. I swallowed hard, struck again by the beauty of his face in the morning light. Struck by the softness of his features, the width of his eyes, the fullness of his lips—all so fucking feminine.
"Yes, I will admit… the patrol was merely a guise."
He frowned up at me in obvious confusion.
"Would you walk with me to the rose garden? There is something I wish to discuss—away from any potentially curious ears."
He hesitated briefly, then nodded. "Of course."
We moved along the winding paths, past gardeners tending to the blooms. The formal rose garden lay beyond a stand of cherry trees, their pale blossoms creating a soft pink canopy overhead.
Few wandered here so early in the season—the roses had barely begun to bloom—which made it ideal for a private conversation.
The garden’s design offered what the court valued most: discretion.
Tall yew hedges formed intimate alcoves where many a deal had been struck and secrets whispered.
I led Lioran to the farthest corner, beneath a weathered stone pergola that would soon be cloaked in roses.
Here, even the highest towers couldn’t overlook us.
It was one of the reasons I'd brought Elenora here—so I could fuck her without an audience. Now the thought of Elenora did nothing for me. Strange.
“No one will disturb us here,” I said, turning to face him.
Lioran stood in the dappled light beneath the latticework, sunlight painting soft patterns across his skin.
He looked almost… otherworldly. I pushed the thought aside.
No matter how much I wished it otherwise, he was not a woman.
And thus, anything that occurred between us could be punishable by death.
It was a risk I was not willing to take, but I had to make him understand, all the same.