1
The soles of her shoes made no sound as she slipped through the halls. She kept to the shadows — though there truly wasn’t a need. Once the candles were snuffed and the curtains drawn, the eyes of Camelot no longer lurked.
At least, inside the walls of the palace, that is. Guinevere Bendragon, Queen of Camelot and wife of its reigning king, Arthur, frequently found herself in such situations. Using the cover of night to drift through the castle, desperate to add just a dash of excitement to her life.
Before her father pledged her hand to a king that would shape legends — her life had looked so different.
With a simple dress and her hair tied back from her face, she donned the half-mask. The plaster was cool against her skin; the feathers brushing against her cheeks with each step she took.
This wasn’t the first time she had snuck out of the castle walls. Camelot was a kind place, but it was… lonely. Her maids were kind, easy to talk to. But Arthur was busy, and when he wasn’t busy, he was distant.
She would never call him cruel. To do so would be treason. But — He wasn’t the man that his kingdom believed he was.
Finding the Holy Grail consumed his every thought.
And fathering a son.
Neither of those things had occurred in the years she had been his wife, and Guinevere could tell he was growing impatient.
So at night, when she could, she snuck past the walls of the palace and into the streets of Camelot. Tonight they were throwing a celebration, a dance to celebrate as the end of the summer drew near.
The music of the revelry was loud, and the men and women enjoyed the freedom of the night sky. Gwen stood to the side, a smile stretched across her lips as she watched the couples dancing together in the moonlight. While she might not have been born into this kingdom, she felt a sense of pride watching its people.
“Which one of those lads put that grin on your face, dearie?” A deep voice broke through her thoughts, causing her to startle.
“Excuse me?”
“A lass, maybe?” Heat flooded her cheeks as she turned to face the man standing beside her. He stood at least a head taller than her, and the blue of his eyes pierced through her.
“No one, sire.” She responded, doing her best to disguise her accent. Very few people in Camelot hailed from Tamalide, and she would be remiss if her way of speaking took her secret freedoms away.
The stranger’s eyes sparkled behind his mask, only the left side of his face was covered, and his own smarmy grin was visible. “No one, eh?” He offered a deep bow, holding his hand to where she stood, frozen. “Then please, let this outsider steal a dance with the most beautiful woman I’ve lain eyes on.”
Her breath caught, and for a moment, she wondered if he could hear the erratic pounding of her heart. The weight of the crown seemedto press down harder with each beat, as though the very fabric of Camelot was pulling her back. She was no lowly woman at all, but the Queen, and to dance with this stranger was a reckless indulgence.
“Just a dance, dove.” His grin did not recede. “What damage could we do?”
With a resigned sigh, she placed her hand in his, lowering her gaze. “Tell me your name, and perhaps I’ll share a dance with you.”
“Why wear a mask then, my dear?” He tugged her towards the throng of dancers, pulling her flush against him. She gasped as his arm came tightly around her waist, keeping her pressed against his body.
They moved in time with the music, his eyes never once leaving hers. Gwen’s thoughts raced as they danced. Each shift of his hands, each brush of his fingers, sent a spark through her veins.
Her breath quickened with each subtle movement, his presence overwhelming in ways she hadn’t expected. Her body responded before her mind could protest, and each turn, each step they took together, felt like an invitation to more — a dangerous, forbidden dance that wasn’t just in time with the music but with the chaotic beating of her own heart. But guilt crept in, souring the moment, reminding her of the crown she wore and the vows she had made. She should stop. She should push away.
Yet, she didn’t.
He dipped his head, and her heart stopped. His mouth was next to her ear, his voice husky as he spoke. “What’s going on in that beautiful head, dove?” His words sent a shiver down her spine, the heat of his breath brushing her skin. “Relax.”
Relax? She could barely breathe, let alone relax. His words were like an invitation to surrender, but there was no room for surrender —not for a queen, not for a woman bound by vows and duty. And yet… her body betrayed her, pressing closer as if it knew what her mind refused to acknowledge.
His hand shifted, just a touch, his fingers grazing the soft curve of her waist, igniting a storm of heat that radiated outward. He couldn’t know that every move they made was a risk, a bold defiance of everything she was meant to represent. And she — God, how badly she wanted to let him take the lead, let him pull her deeper into this reckless, intoxicating whirl.
The music came to an abrupt stop. Her chest heaved against the man she clung to. All at once, Guinevere remembered herself, disentangling from the stranger’s arms and backing away slowly. “Thank you for the dance, sire.” She gave a slight bow and turned on her heels.
As she turned a corner, ducking into an alley on the path to her home, someone grabbed her by the wrist, spinning her around.
“Now…” She heard him before her eyes adjusted to the moonless backstreet. “Where I come from… it’s very improper to leave without a goodbye.” He encroached, moving towards her. She stepped backwards in time until her back hit the cobbled wall.
