CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN #2
But my mind churned with calculations far removed from the role I played.
Drink it, I thought, willing the command through stone and distance to reach the woman I had left behind. Drink the damned Caliope.
Because if she didn't, if she walked into that trial tomorrow with her blood ready to sing its truths to anyone with ears to hear them, there would be nothing I could do to help her.
Not without exposing myself. Not with the King's Guard stationed at every exit.
Not with Arthur himself presiding over the spectacle.
I couldn't save her if she refused to save herself.
Yes, the Veilwood might help her—it might even be enough.
But knowing Mordred, he had polluted the trial with magic of his own—magic that would seek out such potions and deactivate them.
He wouldn't be able to deactivate the Caliope—mainly because he would never have thought to ward against it.
Caliope had not been seen in the mortal realm in centuries.
But it still existed—if you knew where to look.
Truth be told, I was surprised Guinevere had recognized it. Merlin had taught her well.
My fingers tightened around the silk of my gown.
The fabric crumpled easily, unlike the knots of frustration building in my chest. I had given her every advantage I dared—the warning, the potion, even that protective charm that warded against sleepwalkers—something she'd carelessly tucked away somewhere.
How did I know as much? Because I couldn't feel its power anywhere within her chamber, and I should have.
Which brought me to the other complication threading through this already tangled web.
Vaelen.
His presence had been unmistakable the moment I'd entered Guinevere's chamber.
Not a scent exactly—something more subtle.
The residue of dreamwalking left its own signature for those trained to recognize it.
Spectral afterimages flickered at the edges of my vision: an owl perched on the windowsill, silver-edged darkness pooling near the bed, the ghost of conversations held in the space between waking and sleep.
He had been visiting her. Regularly, if the strength of the traces was any indication.
How had I not noticed it the last time I had visited her?
Was it possible my senses had missed it?
I shook my head at the thought—no, I never missed anything.
Then Vaelen had done a good job of cleaning up after himself—at least initially.
But in the intervening days, he'd grown lazy, because I had picked up on his scent the second I'd stepped inside her chamber.
The bastard.
Now I understood why I'd been unsuccessful the times I'd tried to slip into her dreams myself. Each time, I'd been shut out. Firmly. Efficiently. The first time, I'd assumed the dreamwalker charm had done its work—that my gift had provided the protection I'd intended, even against my own magic.
Now I knew better.
Vaelen had warded her mind. Not to protect her from dreamwalkers in general, but to keep me specifically out while maintaining his own access to her. The arrogance of it would have been impressive if it weren't so infuriating.
Vaelen wasn't my enemy—not precisely. We both operated in Camelot's shadows for our own purposes, both wearing masks, both playing dangerous games with Arthur's court as our board.
An unspoken pact existed between us: I wouldn't reveal his identity; he wouldn't reveal mine.
Mutual assured destruction made for reliable insurance.
But that didn't mean our goals aligned.
His were... limited. Shortsighted. I suppose his goals were noble enough, but my purpose for being here was so much larger, so much grander.
So much more important. And I certainly didn't intend to waste Guinevere's extraordinary abilities—whatever they truly were, wherever they'd truly come from—on Vaelen.
Guinevere was meant for greater things than becoming another pawn in a man's movement, another weapon wielded by someone else's hand. Arthur had used me that way once. I wouldn't stand by while Vaelen did the same to her, no matter how prettily he dressed it in dreams and owl-formed visits.
I reached my chambers and slipped inside, bolting the door behind me. The wards I had placed activated immediately, layers of protection settling around me like a familiar cloak.
Vaelen and I needed to have a little conversation. Yes, we needed to establish new terms regarding Guinevere.
Because I had claimed her first.
-ARTHUR-
I descended the narrow spiral staircase into the Hall of Lineages, each step echoing in the cold air, the chill like an unwelcome memory.
The scent of ancient stone wrapped around me, mingling with a faint metallic tang that hinted at the power lingering in this sacred space.
My heart raced—not from fear, but anticipation.
A king’s pulse quickened by the weight of what would be learned today.
The silver of my crown felt heavier with each step downward, as though even the air recognized what today might mean for Camelot’s future.
At the bottom of the steps, the chamber opened before me—vast and solemn.
Walls carved with glowing genealogies stretched into shadow, shimmering crystals illuminating family trees that traced back to heroes long forgotten.
I felt the weight of them—each lineage a story of sacrifice, power, and destiny.
My own ancestors stared down at me, silent judges of whether I still deserved to bear the Pendragon name.
Would they approve of what I’d become?
The thought passed quickly.
A king has no time for doubt.
At the center stood the altar, silver channels spiraling outward like roots plunging deep into the earth—roots that would soon run crimson with the blood of those seeking to prove their worth. Blue flames flickered from ceremonial braziers, throwing their glow across my face.
I paused, surrounded by the silent, forgotten tombs of kings who had once basked in glory. Dust coated the stone—each grain a testament to stories once grand, now decomposing with the bodies they glorified. Their battles, their triumphs, faded into obscurity, a whisper lost to time’s cruelty.
Somewhere lay my father. Uther Pendragon, a king with shadows that reached beyond his grave.
In general, I avoided this place. I had never once visited my father here, never allowing myself the warmth of memory nor the sting of regret.
His was a legacy infected with the same menace that threatened my own reign—the dragon.
Whatever shred of honor Uther had intended, whatever golden dreams of kingship he’d envisioned... all were now rotting just like the flesh within these forgotten tombs.
This could be your same fate.
The words were like ice in my veins, and I immediately lashed out against them.
No. I will defeat this beast, this monster. I will not allow it to overcome me the way it did my father.
I could hear the distant sound of laughter echoing through my mind.
The dragon's amusement reverberated off the walls of my mind like a death knell, each note dripping with malicious satisfaction.
It knew my fears, fed on my doubts, and found endless entertainment in my struggle against its influence.
I pressed my palm against the dragon tattoo sprawling across my chest, feeling the ink burn beneath my ceremonial robes.
The creature stirred at my touch, its presence coiling tighter around my consciousness like smoke seeking to suffocate flame.
Each laugh was a reminder of my inevitable fate—that one day, I would join my father among these forgotten tombs.
I squared my shoulders beneath the mantle of kingship, steadying my thoughts.
For now, I was alone here in this empty space—alone with my thoughts.
I had disallowed the courtiers from attending this particular trial—there was no room for them in the Hall of Lineages, and what was more—this was meant to be a sacred space, only for the knights to prove their truth, their worth to Camelot.
Without this trial, I could never truly trust them, and trust was paramount.
I wasn't certain how much longer I stood among the dead alone, but soon Mordred appeared, leading the candidates, the tension growing heavier with each step they took into the chamber.
They bowed as they passed me, and I offered only the slightest nod in return.
Lance was the last to enter, and he took his place as my First Knight, just beside me.
As for the knights, some radiated confidence. Others bore thin veils of control stretched over their unease. But one drew my attention more than the rest, as always.
Lioran.
I wanted him to pass this trial—to prove himself my comrade, not my enemy.
There was something achingly familiar in the way he held his shoulders straight when others questioned his presence, the subtle lift of his chin that spoke of pride carefully guarded against those who would strip it away.
I recognized that particular brand of resilience, forged in the fires of constant scrutiny and doubt.
When I had been nothing more than a boy with calloused hands and far-off dreams, I, too, had learned to mask uncertainty behind steady gazes and measured words.
I remembered the weight of skeptical stares, the way seasoned knights would look through me as if I were merely another pretender to greatness.
Lioran carried that same burden now, and perhaps that recognition had stirred something protective within me—a kinship born of shared struggle against those who believed bloodline mattered more than character.
He had secrets; I knew that. And secrets, in Camelot, were either weapons or threats.
If he was what I hoped, he could become one of my Round Table knights. But if not… I needed to know. Today, I would know. Strangely, a part of me didn't want to—for if the news were negative, it would upset me.