Lucian knew better than to bare his face here. The Roundtable Hold was still a mystery to him, and caution was the wiser path. Besides, somewhere within these walls lurked the cunning intellect of Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing—a man who kept a network of eyes and ears scattered across the Lands Between. Lucian had no desire to become one of the many lives quietly observed by such a man.
Melina's fingers tightened around his hand. In a breath, the world shifted. The warmth of her touch faded as her form dissolved into nothing, leaving Lucian standing in a grand hall.
He had scarcely a moment to take in the place before startled voices rang out.
"Gah! A Banished Knight! Everyone, back!"
"Why is there a Banished Knight in the Roundtable Hold?!"
"I thought this place was safe! Someone—help!"
Lucian's gaze swept the room. Dozens of Tarnished in mismatched garb—most wearing the tattered leathers or rusted mail of starting arms—stared at him in terror. Their faces were young, unweathered by battle.
The Roundtable Hold… housing a Banished Knight? No—that was not it. They were speaking of him.
He remembered sitting only moments ago, yet their eyes met his as though he stood among them. Looking down, he realized he was still seated—upon the very edge of the Roundtable itself.
In the center of the table, a great cluster of weapons—swords, spears, and axes of every make—were thrust upright into the wood, encircling a massive golden Grace. Unlike any Site of Grace he had yet seen, this one hung suspended above the table, its glow towering as tall as two grown men.
The younger Tarnished shrank back further. To them, the sight of a fully armored Banished Knight—sword, shield, and all—sitting where few dared even to tread, was nothing short of an invasion.
In truth, the more seasoned among them knew better. A true outsider could not walk these halls without the sponsorship of at least two sworn members of the Hold. And yet this man had arrived alone. That alone made him… suspicious.
Still, there was something else—his armor gleamed without scratch or dent, untouched by time or death. Not the scavenged spoils of a grave-robber, but the regalia of one who had claimed it in blood. And from him emanated a weight, a killing intent that only warriors could sense. This man had ended hundreds of lives—recently.
Lucian rose from the table, the clink and grind of plate upon plate echoing in the chamber, making the young ones flinch again. A flicker of mischief tempted him—to rush forward, shield raised, bellowing You think red eyes are just for show?! The thought alone almost made him grin.
But he let the moment pass. One ill-timed jest and they might cut him down.
Clearing his throat, he spoke in a calm, even voice. "Newly arrived… might there be one among you who could show me the way?"
The young ones exchanged wary glances. The veterans stayed silent, unwilling to entangle themselves.
Then, from the back, a bold laugh broke the stalemate.
"Hah! I'll guide you, warrior. You carry the breath of ancient storms."
A woman strode forward, parting the crowd. "I am Nepheli Loux—a warrior who wields the wind, as you do."
Her garb was little more than a hardened leather harness across her chest, leaving her arms and shoulders bare. Her frame was honed and lithe like a hunting cat, her bronzed skin marked with scars, each a testament to battles survived.
"Lucian," he replied, inclining his head. "I have heard the Roundtable Hold gathers heroes. I came to see for myself."
When the two left together, the tension bled from the young Tarnished, and they scattered to their affairs.
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Word traveled swiftly. It reached Sir Gideon Ofnir in the quiet of his study, his eyes scanning tomes and reports without pause. At the mention of the incident, he only shook his head.
"I tire of them—those who think the Hold a sanctuary. Tarnished in name only."
Once, the Roundtable admitted only the finest. But now? Few could even perceive Grace. Gideon's messengers had spread word far and wide, hoping to swell the Hold's ranks, but the flood had brought in the weak alongside the worthy. Some cowered here, treating it as a haven rather than a hall of heroes.
Gideon ignored them. They were passing guests, never sworn to the Hold. Not worth his time.
But the newcomer… There was something in him. When Lucian entered, Gideon had felt a flicker—an aura not unlike that of Queen Marika herself. Could it be that this Tarnished was not only chosen by Grace, but guided by the Queen's own will?
"Let us hope," Gideon murmured, "that he will be of use."
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"Those Tarnished we saw," Lucian asked as they walked, "they're part of the Roundtable Hold?"
"Not true members," Nepheli said. "They've little stomach for the Lands Between. They remain here, earning their keep."
"Earning?"
She nodded. "The Hold has many functions. Commissions are posted, goods are traded. Those without skill in smithing or spirit-tuning serve as messengers—carrying word and wares to Sites of Grace."
She gestured toward an empty stall. "This one belongs to a wandering perfumer. She trades in rare concoctions, sending them out through our couriers. She's gone in search of precious reagents, or I'd introduce you."
Lucian understood now. The Roundtable was more than a meeting place—it was an 'engine,' its influence reaching far beyond these walls.