Chapter 2: Chapter One

Present Day

Arthur Gavin Beaumont shifted his weight on the saddle, his gloved hand gripping the hilt of the steel sword hooked to his belt. Leaning forward, he could feel the sweat gathering under his helmet, a single bead slipping down his temple and tracing a warm path along his cheek. The heavy medieval knight costume clung to him like a second skin, stifling and hot. Soon, when the action began, it would feel even more constrain. He should be used to this by now.

He awaited the signal to ride out into the center of the ring, where he would face off against Lance, the Blue Knight. Today, Gavin carried the title of the Red Knight—Lion's Heart. The name made him smirk. How fitting, and yet how strange. It reminded him of his mother's peculiar games from his childhood. She used to call him the Prince of Camelot, insisting he was destined for greatness in a kingdom that only existed in her imagination. She would play the part of the queen, draping herself in blankets and conjuring tales of bravery and chivalry. Every game, every sport she introduced him to was steeped in the medieval era.

Gavin chuckled softly at the memory, his gaze sweeping over the lively crowd gathered for this afternoon's performance at the Medieval Restaurant. Wouldn't she be proud of him now? He was living her dream, albeit in a different way. Playing a knight for entertainment wasn't exactly a royal destiny, and it certainly didn't pay like one, but it was enough. And here, he was a star—a crowd favorite known for his skill and precision. His talents went beyond what was required for the staged battles, and the audience adored watching him take on rivals in jousting, weaponry, and horsemanship.

One of the highlights of the evening was the eagle showcase. Gavin smiled to himself, thinking of the bird he had personally trained. It added an extra flourish to the spectacle, and the crowd always cheered louder when the majestic creature soared above the ring. For now, though, it was time to step into the role he'd perfected—the Red Knight, Lion's Heart. With the crowd's excitement buzzing in the air, he prepared for the challenge ahead.

All the attention Gavin received, especially from the pretty ladies in the audience, inflated his ego to oversized proportions. Not that he minded—it was a welcome balm to the sting of his other shortcomings. At least here, he excelled at something. College, on the other hand, was a different story. After five years, his dream of becoming a lawyer felt more like a distant fantasy than a tangible goal. His grades could be better, and his motivation had dwindled with each passing semester. But out here, in the arena, he was a star. That had to count for something.

The music shifted to a commanding marching beat, echoing through the arena. His cue. Gavin adjusted his grip on the reins, gave his horse a nudge, and urged the animal into a steady trot. As he entered the dirt-filled stadium, the crowd erupted in cheers, their enthusiasm vibrating in the air.

For all its meager pay, this job gave him something he desperately needed... recognition. In the two years he'd been performing, countless spectators had praised him. Some even swore he looked as though he'd stepped straight out of the pages of a medieval legend. The compliments, the cheers, the applause—it was intoxicating. For those brief moments, he wasn't a struggling college student with dashed dreams. Instead, he was Gavin Beaumont, the Red Knight, Lion's Heart.

Across the arena, the Blue Knight appeared, his horse plodding slowly toward Gavin. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss, but as they closed the distance, Gavin's instincts stirred. Something was off. The armor didn't sit on Lance the way it had in previous matches—it hung too loose in some places, too tight in others. And the way the knight rode... Gavin narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of it.

Lance had always been a laughable rider, bouncing awkwardly in the saddle like he was moments away from tumbling off. But now? The Blue Knight moved with a strange confidence, almost fluid. The horse's strides were smooth, and Lance—if it was Lance—kept his posture steady.

Gavin's grin faded beneath his helmet. Whoever this was, they weren't the Blue Knight he knew.

The two knights guided their horses into an intricate dance, their steeds stepping in practiced, synchronized patterns as they circled one another. The crowd roared with approval, their cheers rising and falling like waves. Gavin could hear some guests chanting his name, and he couldn't help but smirk. The audience was always encouraged to choose their champion, but knowing the louder cheers were for him sent a pleasant jolt to his ego.

After a few moments of the theatrical display, both knights dismounted in unison. The crowd's excitement swelled as Gavin and the Blue Knight drew their swords, the polished steel glinting under the arena lights. The anticipation in the air was electric. This was what the audience came for—the thrill of battle brought to life.

The first clash of blades rang out, the metallic clang echoing sharply across the arena. Gavin shifted his stance, his boots moving with precision as he executed the intricate footwork he'd spent years perfecting. The Blue Knight mirrored his movements, keeping pace with surprising ease. Cheers and gasps rippled through the crowd as their swords met again, sparks flying from the collision.

Something about the Blue Knight was different. Gavin scowled as he deflected another blow, the force of it nearly jarring his arm. The strikes were stronger tonight—sharper, faster, more deliberate.

Gavin adjusted his grip, his mind racing. The knights were supposed to be acting, playing out their scripted roles for the audience. There was no need to overpower one another unless it had been agreed upon beforehand. But tonight, the Blue Knight wasn't holding back.

Sweat beaded on Gavin's brow as he parried another powerful strike. He stole a glance at his opponent, his focus narrowing. This couldn't be Lance. The way the man moved, the force behind each swing—it was too precise, too aggressive. In fact, whoever was dressed in the Blue Knight's armor was thinner, shortner, and his movements almost foreign compared to the bumbling knight Gavin was used to sparring against.

His mind churned with questions. Had they replaced Lance at the last minute without telling him? But why? And who was this new knight, stepping into the role with such ferocity? Gavin tightened his grip on his sword, his heartbeat quickening.

Gavin forced himself to stay focused. He had one job tonight... win the tournament. But why was Lance—or whoever was behind that armor—fighting as though this were a real duel? Each blow was heavier, each move sharper, as if the Blue Knight was truly out for blood. This wasn't Lance. It couldn't be. Yet it didn't matter now. The crowd was watching, their cheers and gasps echoing through the arena. Gavin couldn't falter. He wouldn't.

Sweat trickled down his face, pooling under the suffocating confines of his helmet. He gritted his teeth and matched his opponent strike for strike, deflecting blow after blow. But as the minutes dragged on, his muscles began to betray him. The dull ache in his arms grew sharper with each parry, spreading to his shoulders and legs. Irritation flared in his chest, fueling his determination. He trained every day—an hour, sometimes more. Why was his body giving out now, of all times?

With a growl, Gavin pushed harder, his strikes coming faster, more forceful. He couldn't lose. Not here. Not in front of a crowd that chanted his name moments ago. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, the heat inside his helmet unbearable. He couldn't take it anymore.

Grumbling under his breath, he yanked off the helmet and flung it to the ground, the cool air a brief relief against his burning skin. The crowd's roar swelled at the dramatic reveal of his face, and Gavin felt a flicker of satisfaction. Let them cheer. Let them see him for the knight he was.

He swung his blade with renewed vigor, but his opponent... paused. The Blue Knight stopped moving entirely, his sword lowered. For a moment, he simply stared at Gavin.

Gavin's brow furrowed. What was wrong with him? Why wasn't he fighting?

"Come on," Gavin snapped, arching an eyebrow. "You giving up already?"

But the Blue Knight remained still, his helmeted head tilted slightly, as if considering something.

Gavin shrugged, irritation flickering into confidence. Fine. If the guy wanted to hand him the win, he wouldn't complain. Maybe this was his moment to seize control and finish the game.

He raised his sword, ready to deliver the final blow. In an instant, the Blue Knight moved. Faster than Gavin could react, his opponent ducked under the swing and swept his sword low, knocking Gavin off his feet. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs.

He swore, but his voice was low enough not to carry to the audience. He gritted his teeth, anger flaring. Why had the guy done that? Didn't he know Gavin was supposed to win?

The match was over, technically, but he refused to let this impudent newcomer take all the glory. He clenched his fists, his frustration fueling a stubborn resolve. Whoever this man was, he would regret showing Gavin up.

He scrambled to his feet, the weight of his armor dragging at his movements. Every muscle in his body ached, but he gritted his teeth and raised his sword again. His glare burned beneath the rim of his helmet as he met his opponent's next strike. He wanted—no, needed—to see the face of the man who dared to challenge him. If he could just knock the Blue Knight to the ground, he would make him remove that helmet and reveal himself.

But this opponent was no ordinary challenger. The Blue Knight matched Gavin move for move, with skill so precise it bordered on unnerving. Every strike Gavin delivered was countered with ease, every thrust met with an almost abnormal anticipation. The man's balance was unshakable, his resolve unbreakable. Gavin couldn't find an opening. He hated to admit it, but this knight was almost better than he was.

Frustration flared in Gavin's chest, igniting a fire that drove his every motion. His muscles screamed for relief, but he ignored them. Anger fueled his movements now, guiding each swing of his sword with a ferocity that bordered on recklessness. He was so absorbed in the fight that he no longer heard the roar of the crowd or the chants of his name. The clang of steel against steel and the sound of his own labored breaths drowned everything else out.

Why couldn't he weaken the other man? He couldn't be that strong. Gavin had trained for years, honed his skills to perfection, and yet it was his strength that was fading, not the Blue Knight's. Each strike left his arms heavier, his grip on his sword less certain.

And then, with one swift, calculated swipe, the Blue Knight struck low and swept Gavin's legs out from under him. Again! The world tilted as Gavin fell, landing hard on his back. He lay there, gasping for air, the sword slipping from his grip. For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling of the arena, his chest heaving. How had this happened? How had this stranger made him look like a fool in front of his fans? Again!

Humiliation burned in his chest as he clenched his fists. This was unacceptable. He was the star. He was the Red Knight, the one the crowd came to see. Nobody made him look weak—not some last-minute replacement, not anyone. Whoever this new guy was, Gavin would make sure he was fired before the night was over.

His gaze shifted toward the Blue Knight, narrowing in frustration. The crowd had fallen to an expectant hush as the knight reached up, gripping the edges of their helmet. Slowly, deliberately, they lifted it off.

Gavin's breath hitched as a cascade of auburn hair spilled free, tumbling over the knight's shoulders in shimmering waves. The angular lines of the helmet gave way to soft, delicate features—a face framed by fiery hair that was undeniably feminine.

A woman?

Gavin stared, stunned, his anger momentarily forgotten. The realization struck him like a blow, harder than any sword could deliver. For a moment, all he could do was lie there, his chest heaving as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

The arena erupted in gasps and whispers, but Gavin heard none of it. All he could focus on was her face—and the sharp sting of his own pride.

He couldn't take his eyes off her. The crowd erupted in a deafening cheer, their excitement shaking the air around them. They were eating it up—the unexpected surprise, the dramatic twist. But he wasn't enjoying it at all. His pride stung like an open wound, and the fact that she had beaten him only twisted the knife.

A woman? Really?

It didn't make sense. She had to be on steroids—or maybe she was some kind of superhero in disguise. How else could she have overpowered him?

The woman's smile grew wider as she strode toward him, her confidence infuriatingly unshaken. She stopped beside him, bent slightly, and extended a hand, her expression both teasing and triumphant.

Gavin narrowed his eyes. His first instinct was to grab her hand and yank her down beside him, to wipe that smug look off her face. But no—he forced himself to curl his fingers into a fist, reigning in the boiling frustration. Maybe, just this once, he needed to be the bigger man—not the spoiled five-year-old his temper begged him to be.

Grinding his teeth to keep from making a snarky remark, he reached up and took her hand. Her grip was firm but surprisingly gentle as she helped him to his feet. As he rose, he was struck by how small she was. The top of her head barely reached his chin. Somehow, that made the sting of defeat even worse.

She held his hand aloft, and the two of them bowed to the cheering crowd. He forced himself to go along with the act, though his jaw remained tight and his shoulders stiff. The woman, on the other hand, seemed to bask in the moment, waving enthusiastically to the audience as her face beamed with excitement.

Gavin said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't trust himself to speak—not here, not in front of everyone. Whatever he said now would likely only embarrass him further, and he wasn't about to give the crowd more to laugh about. He would save his frustration for later, when they were away from prying eyes.

When she finally released his hand, he turned on his heel, striding toward his horse. On the way, he snatched his helmet off the ground, clenching it under his arm like a lifeline. Without another glance at her, he swung onto his steed and rode back the way he'd come.

Behind the scenes, two employees hurried over to help him dismount. Gavin barely acknowledged them, scanning the area with a laser focus. Where was the manager? Someone had answers, and he wasn't leaving until he got them. Whatever was going on here, he was going to get to the bottom of it—and someone was going to pay.

"Gavin," Tony, the Green Knight, said, running over to him. "What was that all about? I thought you were supposed to take the tournament."

"Yeah, I was." Gavin raked his fingers through his damp hair, pushing his long locks away from his face. "I didn't even know they'd replaced Lance."

"Neither did I." The blond knight with shoulder-length hair glanced at those people who littered the room. "I haven't seen him all evening."

Finally, the mysterious knight strode into the staging area, leading Lance's horse by the reins. The steed followed obediently, its metal-clad rider now exposed for all to see. A small group of employees rushed over, their faces glowing—not with concern, but with awe. They didn't offer assistance, but surrounded her like she was a hero fresh from battle. Their voices rose in admiration, peppering her with praise for defeating Gavin.

His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he muttered a string of curses under his breath. His ego was already in tatters, and their fawning wasn't helping. How had he let her beat him? He'd spent years perfecting his craft, refining his skills, and yet she—this stranger—had bested him in front of everyone.

It didn't make sense. Where had she come from? All the women he knew weren't nearly as strong as she was unless they were bodybuilders—and this woman, with her lithe frame and delicate features, didn't look like she spent her days hoisting barbells. She seemed so... ordinary. But her strength, her precision—it had been anything but.

As if sensing his thoughts, she turned her head and met his gaze. Her emerald eyes were calm, steady, and unreadable. She gave him a nod, a faint acknowledgment that sent a new ripple of irritation through his chest. Then, she said something to the others clustered around her. Gavin couldn't hear what she said, but it was enough to send them scattering. And then, to his satisfaction, she began walking toward him.

Good. He had a few things to say to her, too.

Gavin straightened, folding his arms tightly across his chest. He didn't move to meet her halfway. Why should he? Not after the stunt she'd pulled in front of his fans. If she wanted to talk, she'd have to come to him.

When she finally stopped in front of him, she seemed unbothered by his stony expression. Sweeping a cascade of auburn hair off her neck, she dabbed a towel against her throat, blotting away the sweat from their match. Her movements were unhurried, almost casual, as though she hadn't just shaken the foundations of his confidence and stolen his spotlight.

The silence stretched between them, charged and heavy. Gavin's frustration bubbled just beneath the surface, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of disbelief and indignation. Who was she? And more importantly, how had she done it?

"I must say," she began, "you were very difficult to beat. There were times I thought I would lose."

She had a British accent, which meant there was a good chance she was adept at riding horses. But that still gave her no right to do what she did.

"And you are extremely strong for such a petite woman." He arched an eyebrow. "Are you on steroids?"

Confusion crossed her expression and she slowly shook her head. "I know not of what you mean."

Now Gavin was the confused person in this duo. Why did she speak so strangely? "What's your name?"

"Felicity Seymour."

"Well, listen Felicity—"

"And there is no mistaken that you are Arthur Beaumont," she cut him off.

His thoughts came to a sharp halt. Arthur? Nobody called him by his first name, not even his mother had called him Arthur. So, how did this woman know?

"Excuse me," he said slowly, "I'm not Arthur. I'm Gavin."

"But your Christian name is Arthur, correct?"

"Umm... my first name is Arthur, yes, but I don't use it. Ever. So, how do you know it?"

She smiled sweetly, a calm, almost disarming expression that only fueled Gavin's irritation. It wasn't the kind of smile meant to provoke—it was polite, courteous even—but that somehow made it worse. His jaw tightened. Already, her temperament was getting under his skin. It was almost like she knew how much she was getting to him—and was enjoying every second of it.

"I know many things about you, Arthur Beaumont."

He shook his head. "Stop calling me that. My name is Gavin."

"As you wish."

"So, where is Lance?"

She shrugged. "I do not know that person."

"He was the Blue Knight, the man I was supposed to fight instead of you."

"Oh," she sighed and nodded. "He was taken ill, so I stepped in his place."

"Well, obviously, nobody told you that I was supposed to win that tournament just a few minutes ago." He motioned his head toward the arena. "Needless to say, I'm quite upset that you forced me to lose."

"I understand," she said, giving him a sympathetic pout, "nonetheless, I could show you a few moves to do whenever you are in that situation again. These movements will keep you from losing to your opponent."

Seriously? She couldn't possibly be trying to give him instructions on how to sword fight. Yet that was the very thing she was doing. It appeared that her ego was larger than his.

"Actually, I think I know enough—"

"But you do not, Arth... um, Gavin Beaumont."

He rolled his eyes. Didn't she have enough courtesy to keep from interrupting? He gritted his teeth, wanting to lash out at her verbally. This wasn't the place for that, and certainly not the time. He'd have to return to the arena to demonstrate his skill with the eagle.

"I appreciate your willingness to teach me," he ground out, "but I refuse your help. Respectfully," he added, his tone of voice trying to mimic hers.

For a few blissful, refreshing moments, she said nothing. The silence should have been a relief, but her lingering gaze made it anything but. Her eyes roamed over his face, studying him with an intensity that prickled at his nerves.

Normally, Gavin didn't mind being looked at. In fact, he was used to women checking him out—enjoyed it, even. But with her, it felt different. It wasn't admiration or flirtation... it was something else entirely. It was as if she were sizing him up, searching for cracks in the carefully polished armor of his ego.

All Gavin wanted was for her to leave, to take her maddening calm and that smug air of superiority somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

Another tournament had ended, because the roar of the crowd pulled him out of his thoughts. Seconds later, the announcer came over the loudspeaker, announcing that the Red Knight would enter momentarily with his pet eagle, Aquila.

He turned to move toward the stadium, but threw a glare over his shoulder at the woman. "I'm on next."

"You resemble your father a little."

Once again, her words threw his thoughts into disarray, but this time, they did more than that—they stopped him in his tracks. His feet faltered, coming to an abrupt halt as he turned to face her.

He stared at her, his confusion written plainly across his face. Bewilderment flooded through him like a rising tide, twisting his frustration into something uncomfortably close to curiosity. He shook his head, as if the motion could somehow clear the fog she'd cast over his thoughts.

What was it about her? The way she spoke, the way she carried herself—it was as though she knew exactly how to knock him off balance without even trying. And worse, it was working.

"Listen, lady, you don't know my father because he died when I was five-years-old."

"He actually died when you were in your tenth year, but you and your mother were gone by that point in time."

Gavin was baffled. This woman was a nut-job. There was no other explanation.

From the loudspeaker, his name was called again. One of his coworkers hurried to him and yanked on his arm.

"Gavin, you're up, man. Get going."

He tore his gaze away from Felicity Seymour and marched toward the area. His eagle was perched on another person's arm, and was quickly transferred to Gavin's arm. He prayed he'd be able to concentrate on this performance instead of the woman who spoke things she didn't know the first thing about.

How had she known his father, when Gavin didn't have any memories of him at all?