Arthur sighed as he stepped into the dimly lit room of the inn, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. The scent of aged wood and faint traces of ale lingered in the air, a stark contrast to the pristine halls of Camelot he once knew. He wasn't sure if he would ever grow used to such places, but for now, this would have to do.
Setting his sword down with care, he began removing his gauntlets, one by one, letting out a quiet breath. It had been a long day, and for once, he was looking forward to a moment of rest.
Then, as if the universe had conspired against him, the door burst open with enough force to shake the hinges.
Arthur didn't even flinch.
"Merlin," he said flatly, not bothering to turn around.
Standing in the doorway, draped in his usual flowing robes, was the culprit himself. The court mage's expression was positively gleeful, his violet eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Arthur! I've come to visit!" Merlin declared, stepping inside without so much as an invitation, his staff tapping against the wooden floor as he moved.
Arthur sighed again, rubbing his temple. "You barged in, Merlin."
"Details, details." Merlin waved him off before gracefully dropping onto the nearest chair as if he owned the place. "What matters is that I'm here now, and aren't you just delighted to see me?"
Arthur finally turned to look at him, unimpressed. "What do you want?"
Merlin feigned a wounded expression, placing a hand over his heart. "Must I always want something?"
Arthur gave him a deadpan stare.
Merlin grinned. "Alright, fine. Perhaps I was just a little curious." He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "You've been rather busy as of late, haven't you?"
Arthur frowned but remained silent.
"Training someone, are we?" Merlin continued, tilting his head. "A certain young lioness, perhaps?"
Arthur's fingers twitched at the mention of Artoria, but he schooled his expression. "That's none of your concern."
"Oh, but you see, it is my concern." Merlin's eyes sharpened slightly, his usual mirth laced with something more knowing. "You're shaping the future of Britain with your own hands, Arthur. That's not something I can simply ignore."
Arthur crossed his arms. "I'm merely giving guidance where it is needed." Arthur said though he didn't ignore how Merlin said he was shaping the future of Britain.
Merlin chuckled. "Yes, yes, of course. Guidance. That's certainly one way to put it." He leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling as if deep in thought. "He's coming along nicely, isn't he? Adapting, growing—like a sword being forged in the heat of battle."
Arthur studied him for a long moment. "You already knew, didn't you?"
Merlin smirked. "Oh, Arthur, I always know."
Arthur exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Then why ask?"
"Because," Merlin said, standing up in one fluid motion, "I wanted to hear it from you." He turned to the door but hesitated, glancing back. "You know, he reminds me of you in many ways."
Arthur remained silent, his thoughts unreadable.
Merlin's smile softened—just barely. "Try not to be too hard on him."
And with that, he was gone, leaving Arthur standing alone in the quiet room, the echoes of Merlin's words lingering like an unshaken spell.
Arthur let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned his gaze to the floor.
"So, he found out," he murmured to himself.
Not that it was surprising. Merlin always knows.
Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking slightly under his weight. He rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together as he let his mind wander back to the conversation. Merlin's words played over and over in his head, but there was one phrase that stood out above the rest.
"You're shaping the future of Britain with your own hands."
Arthur's fingers curled slightly. It wasn't just an observation—it was a confirmation. Merlin wasn't speaking in riddles this time. He was directly implying that Artoria would be the future King of Britain.
The idea had crossed his mind before, of course. He wasn't blind to the weight she carried, the purpose behind her training. There was something destined about her, something beyond mere skill or potential. But hearing it from Merlin made it feel... inevitable.
Arthur exhaled, leaning back slightly.
"A woman... as King," he muttered to himself. It wasn't disbelief that colored his tone, nor was it mockery—just contemplation.
The world would not accept it easily. The knights, the nobles, the people—they would resist. They would question. They would doubt.
And yet...
Arthur closed his eyes briefly, recalling their sparring session. The way Artoria moved, the fire in her eyes, the unwavering resolve behind every strike. She was already fighting as if the weight of a kingdom was on her shoulders.
Maybe it already was.
Arthur huffed out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Of course you would choose her, Merlin."
A part of him still wondered, though—was this truly her fate? Or was it something that had been forced upon her?
He frowned. That was something only Artoria herself could answer.
For now, though, he knew one thing.
If she was to be King, then she would need to be ready for what that truly meant. And if Merlin believed Arthur's guidance would help shape that future... then so be it.
Lifting his sword from where he had placed it, Arthur rested it across his lap, running a hand over the familiar hilt.
"Let's see where this path leads, Artoria."
For the first time in a long while, he found himself looking forward to what was to come.
—-
Months later: Day of the sword of selection.
The air was thick with tension. The crowd pressed in from all sides, murmurs rippling through the sea of people as one knight after another stepped forward, grasped the hilt of the legendary sword, and failed.
Arthur stood silently beside Merlin, arms crossed, his sharp gaze watching the spectacle unfold. The knights approached the stone with a mixture of arrogance and reverence, but each one left the same way—empty-handed and disheartened.
The murmurs among the spectators grew restless.
"Are there no knights in this country who bear the hallmark of a king?"
"Is there no future for Britain?"
"Was Merlin's prophecy even true?"
Arthur glanced at Merlin, who, for once, did not wear his usual knowing smirk. Instead, the magus had a thoughtful look on his face, his chin resting lightly on his fingertips as he observed the growing unease.
"Merlin," Arthur said lowly, barely above a whisper. "You knew this would happen."
Merlin chuckled under his breath. "Of course. But knowing and witnessing are two different things, don't you think?"
Arthur sighed. His eyes flicked back to the selection arena, where several knights, clearly frustrated, were now turning away from the sword entirely.
"If no man can pull it, then let us choose another way," one knight declared.
There was a murmur of agreement.
"In any case, we have so many knights gathered here. There are many ways to determine a king."
"Yes. The best among us shall succeed Uther," another added.
The murmurs became shouts of approval.
"It should be settled with a tournament!"
"A joust! Only the strongest should rule!"
Arthur's brows furrowed. So that's how it is...
The sword had rejected them, and rather than accept its judgment, they sought to crown a king through personal merit. It wasn't unexpected—prideful warriors would not easily accept that their strength was insufficient. But Arthur knew what they didn't: the sword would not yield to mere strength.
His gaze swept over the crowd, and he caught sight of her.
Artoria stood a short distance away, her hood slightly raised to avoid unwanted attention. She was watching the events unfold with the same quiet intensity as him, though her lips were pressed in a thin line—whether in thought or frustration, he could not tell.
Then, her attention shifted.
Arthur followed her gaze and spotted Kay, standing off to the side, his foul temper evident in the way his hands clenched at his sides. He was missing his spear, likely misplaced in the chaos of the event.
Artoria moved with the grace of a shadow, slipping through the crowd without drawing attention.
Arthur smirked slightly. As subtle as ever.
Kay hadn't even noticed her approach until she was right beside him. She held the spear out, her expression unreadable.
Kay blinked, startled, before quickly grasping it. His fingers brushed against hers briefly before she withdrew her hand.
"...Thanks," he muttered.
Artoria merely nodded, then turned her gaze back toward the selection stone.
Arthur continued watching them, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
The air was heavy with disappointment.
Where once there had been excitement, boasting, and spectacle, now there was only silence. The crowd had scattered. The knights had turned their backs. And the sword—the fabled Sword of Selection—stood untouched, as if it had never been the object of so much fervor.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, unsurprised by the turn of events. Prideful men, so quick to believe themselves worthy, had now abandoned the sword entirely, unwilling to acknowledge their failure. Those who had once claimed to be chosen by fate now dismissed the prophecy as mere legend, something to be set aside in favor of their own ambitions.
His eyes shifted.
Someone was approaching the stone.
He watched as a small, unassuming figure stepped forward. Unlike the others, she did not hesitate. She did not boast, nor did she steel herself with false bravado. She simply placed her palm on the hilt, her fingers curling around the cool metal as if it were something familiar—something meant for her.
Arthur's breath caught in his throat.
"She's going to lift it."
The distant clamor of knights echoed through the fields, the sound of gallant cavalry moving further away. The world was oblivious to what was about to happen.
Artoria stood before the sword, alone.
It was a feeling she knew well—watching a festival from the outside, always on the edges, never within reach of the warmth and joy others so easily basked in. She had lived her life in the shadows of knights and kings, neither fully belonging to their world nor free to live as herself.
But this was different.
The sword was warm beneath her fingers. It did not resist her touch. Instead, something within her stirred—something she had always tried to suppress, a burning fire that had threatened to consume her ever since she could remember.
And now, as her grip tightened, that fire flowed into the sword, and in return, the sword gave something back. A weight lifted from her body, a burden she had always carried but never understood. The sword would fall out if she simply let go.
"It's better to think carefully before picking up that thing."
She turned at the sound of the voice.
A strange man stood behind her, clad in the robes of a magus. His long silver hair caught the wind, his violet eyes twinkling with unreadable amusement.
No—he was not a stranger.
She had met him many, many times before. Not in the flesh, but in her dreams. In the whispers of fate that had guided her for as long as she could remember.
Merlin.
His lips curled into an easy smile, but there was a weight to his words.
"I'm not going to say anything bad, but you better stop."
She did not reply.
"Once you pick that sword up, you will no longer be able to live the life of a human being until the end."
His voice was light, but the meaning was heavy.
"That's not all, though. You will be resented by all people if you accept it, and you will die a miserable death."
A chill ran down her spine.
Fear distorted her expression. She could see it—the future he spoke of. It was not a warning, nor a mere possibility. It was a prophecy, one etched into the fabric of fate. No matter how hard she struggled, no matter how desperately she fought, she would suffer a lonely and brutal death.
Her hands trembled.
Then—
"Even the strongest castle crumbles when built on a lonely stone."
The words echoed in her mind, cutting through the fog of despair like a blade.
A vision.
A figure standing beside her, unwavering. Not as a subject, nor as a follower—but as an equal.
Arthur.
Her brother. The one person she could rely on. The one person who had never once doubted her, never once turned away.
Her first true friend.
Her fingers tightened around the hilt.
Merlin watched, his gaze unreadable, as she took a breath and pulled.
The moment the sword left the stone, the air seemed to shift—subtle, but undeniable. As if the world itself had acknowledged the choice that had been made. A choice that could not be undone.
Artoria stood still, the legendary blade now fully in her grasp, its weight both lighter and heavier than she had expected. She exhaled slowly, as if coming to terms with the path she had just set in motion.
A few feet away, Merlin observed her for a lingering moment before turning on his heel.
His robes swayed as he started walking away, his stride unhurried, as though he had already seen this conclusion long before it had come to pass. The wind carried his presence with it, making it seem as if he would simply vanish into the morning mist, as he always did.
Arthur, however, remained where he was.
"You've gotten what you wanted, Merlin."
His voice was calm, but resolute. He did not turn to face the magus. He did not need to. He knew Merlin well enough to anticipate his reaction.
Merlin paused mid-step, then glanced back with a smirk. His violet eyes, gleaming with mischief yet carrying the weight of ancient wisdom, studied Arthur as if reading the thoughts behind his words.
"You don't seem disappointed with the outcome either, Arthur," Merlin mused. "If anything, you seem proud."
Arthur finally turned, meeting the magus' gaze. His expression was steady—unwavering.
"She decided," he said simply. "It was her own choice, not mine. Not yours. That is what I'm proud of."
For a moment, Merlin was silent.
Then, he chuckled, shaking his head as if amused by the sheer inevitability of it all.
"You always are the sentimental one," he murmured.
Arthur said nothing in response, his attention returning to Artoria, who remained by the sword—by her sword. The weight of her decision had yet to fully settle, but she did not waver.
She had chosen.
And now, Britain would move forward because of it.
—
The ringing of steel against steel echoed through the training grounds, each strike carrying the force of two warriors whose strength had become nearly unparalleled.
Arthur's sword met Caliburn in a clash that sent sparks flying between them. The impact rippled through his arms, but he held firm, pressing against Artoria's guard with a determined gaze.
Across from him, Artoria's slitted emerald eyes locked onto his own. Her breath was steady, her stance unwavering. Over the past months, her strength had become an undeniable force—one that rivaled his own in sheer power. Her movements were crisp, efficient, and each strike carried an intensity that only continued to grow.
Arthur smirked slightly. She's improved again.
He pivoted on his heel, disengaging and swiftly maneuvering to her side, aiming a precise strike toward her exposed flank. But Artoria anticipated it, twisting Caliburn in a fluid arc to parry before immediately countering with a thrust aimed at his chest.
Arthur barely had time to tilt his body, the blade slicing through the air just inches away. He spun backward, creating distance between them, his breath controlled.
"You're getting faster," he noted, rolling his shoulders as he steadied his stance once more.
Artoria exhaled, gripping Caliburn tightly. "You're still holding back."
Arthur's smirk widened slightly. "Am I?"
Without warning, he surged forward, his blade moving in a blur. Artoria's eyes widened just slightly before she reacted, bringing Caliburn up to meet his strike. The impact sent a shockwave through the air, their locked blades humming with power.
Neither relented.
Artoria's strength had grown at an alarming rate—perhaps even faster than she had realized. But Arthur was still the more versatile of the two. He weaved between offense and defense seamlessly, utilizing footwork, agility, and sheer adaptability in a way that made him unpredictable.
Yet, Artoria matched him blow for blow.
For all their differences, in terms of raw power, they were equals.
The spar continued, their movements flowing with precision and grace. The ground beneath them bore the scars of their relentless exchange, dust and debris stirring in the wake of their strikes. The clash of metal resounded in a steady rhythm—until it was suddenly interrupted.
A voice, urgent and breathless, cut through the air.
"My Lords! A tribe near the border is under attack!"
Both Arthur and Artoria halted immediately, turning toward the approaching knight. He was panting, his armor stained with dust and sweat, his expression grim.
Arthur lowered his blade, his focus instantly shifting. "Who's attacking them?"
"The Saxons," the knight answered, wiping his brow. "A raiding party. They struck without warning, cutting down villagers before any defenses could be mounted."
Artoria sheathed Caliburn, her expression hardening. "How many?"
"A small force, but they're brutal. If we don't act soon, the village will be lost."
Arthur and Artoria exchanged a brief glance—one that carried a silent understanding.
The spar was over.
Without hesitation, Arthur turned to the knight. "Gather the men. We leave immediately."
Artoria nodded in agreement, her grip tightening around Caliburn's hilt. There was no hesitation in her movements, no uncertainty in her eyes.
The battlefield called.
And they would answer.
—
The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the dirt was drowned out only by the distant screams echoing through the forest. Smoke curled into the sky beyond the trees, a dark omen against the pale blue horizon. The scent of burning wood and blood carried on the wind, growing stronger with every gallop forward.
Artoria rode at the front, her emerald eyes locked ahead, unflinching. Despite the rush of the wind in her hair, despite the chaos awaiting her beyond the tree line, her grip on the reins remained steady. She had no choice—if her hands trembled now, her men would see it. And if they saw it, they might hesitate.
And hesitation meant death.
Behind her, Arthur and Kay followed closely, their warhorses keeping pace with hers. Arthur, ever composed, kept his gaze scanning their surroundings, his mind undoubtedly running through possible strategies before they even reached the battle. Kay, ever the realist, scowled as he adjusted his grip on his sword, a scoff leaving his lips.
"Tch. Fifty men," Kay muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Arthur to hear. "Against a Saxon raiding party. No more than fifty of us at most."
Arthur cast him a sidelong glance but remained silent. He knew what Kay was thinking.
Artoria had yet to earn Britain's full trust. The nobles saw her not as their rightful king, but as an untested girl wielding a sword beyond her means. They whispered of their doubts behind her back, claiming she had yet to prove herself worthy of leading them. Because of that, she had only been given a fraction of the forces she should have commanded.
And now, fifty men were all she had.
Arthur finally spoke, his tone even. "Fifty is enough."
Kay let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "We're outnumbered."
Artoria, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, her voice unwavering.
"We were outnumbered from the moment I drew the sword."
Kay blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the bluntness of her words.
Arthur, however, smirked slightly. "True."
Artoria did not look at them. Her focus remained ahead, where the village now came into full view.
It was worse than she had imagined.
The village was already in flames, thick black smoke rising into the air. The Saxons had broken through the meager defenses, their warriors tearing through the settlement like beasts. They cut down men and women alike, their brutal efficiency making it clear that they did not intend to leave survivors.
Artoria's grip on the reins tightened. The cries of the innocent, the clash of steel, the smell of burning flesh—it all crashed into her senses at once.
The knights behind her shifted anxiously, some muttering prayers, others gripping their weapons as they prepared for the inevitable clash.
Kay exhaled sharply. "We're going to need a damn miracle."
Arthur drew his sword. "Then we'll make one."
Artoria finally turned to face them, her expression unreadable. And yet, there was something in her gaze—a quiet fire that burned unshaken by the chaos before them.
She raised Caliburn high, its golden light shining even against the smoke-filled sky.
"We ride for Britain," she declared, her voice carrying over the battlefield. "For those who cannot fight, for those who still believe—this is our duty."
The knights, though small in number, rallied behind her words.
Arthur lifted his own sword. "For Britain."
Kay sighed but smirked as he raised his blade as well. "For Britain."
And with that, Artoria spurred her horse forward.
Artoria's voice rang out like a clarion call, steady and commanding, cutting through the chaos of the battlefield. Her emerald eyes, once filled with doubt, now burned with determination. The ragged cries of the villagers, mixed with the screams of the Saxons, only strengthened her resolve. She would not let these invaders desecrate what little was left of her homeland.
"Disperse," she commanded, her words sharp, focused. "Follow me, and protect the innocent at all costs. Kay, Arthur—do not allow the Saxons to harm a single soul. This battle is not just for victory; it is to show them what a true knight is. Show them our honor. Fight with your lives, and make them regret ever stepping foot on our soil."
The knights around her responded in unison, their voices fierce with loyalty. "Yes, King Artorius!"
Arthur and Kay exchanged a brief glance, their expressions set with unspoken understanding. Without a word, they split off from Artoria, their horses kicking up dirt as they moved to flank the Saxon forces. The knights under their command followed suit, creating two distinct, but complementary, lines of defense—one to secure the rear and protect the villagers, the other to strike at the invaders and push them back.
Kay, ever the practical knight, muttered under his breath as he drew his sword. "We're at a disadvantage in numbers, but we have to hit them hard. We take out their leaders, and the rest will scatter."
Arthur, calm as ever, nodded without looking back at Kay. "It's more than numbers. It's heart. If we fight with our honor, they will fall before us. We will show them the strength of true knights."
Meanwhile, Artoria spurred her horse forward, leading her men straight into the heart of the fray. The battle was already in full swing. The Saxons, brutal and relentless, had already set fire to the village, their warriors slicing through the defenseless with bloodlust in their eyes.
Artoria's grip on Caliburn tightened. She wasn't just fighting for Britain now—she was fighting for the soul of what it meant to be a knight.
With a rallying cry, she charged into the fray, her golden sword gleaming like a beacon of hope. The enemy saw her coming—a lone figure in shining armor, and they attempted to circle her, hoping to overwhelm her with sheer numbers. But Artoria was no mere soldier. She was the once and future king, her strength and resolve unmatched by any of them.
"FOR BRITAIN!" she shouted, her voice carrying over the battlefield, steady and sure. "For the fallen, for those who cannot defend themselves!"
Her blade swept through the air with practiced precision. The first Saxon warrior tried to block with a crude, rusted shield, but Artoria's strike shattered it like glass. Her sword cleaved through his armor like it was paper, and he fell to the ground with a scream, his blood staining the earth beneath him.
The sight of their leader's swift and decisive action shook the Saxons for a moment. Their charge faltered, and Artoria seized the moment. She spurred her horse forward once more, her knights following her lead, charging in with the same unshakable conviction.
Artoria dismounted her horse with a fluid motion, her feet landing solidly on the earth beneath her. The battlefield stretched out before her, chaotic and swirling with the sounds of clashing steel, desperate cries, and the distant roars of battle. The Saxons, a relentless wave of savage warriors, stood in front of her like a wall of fury. She raised Caliburn, the blade gleaming with an otherworldly light, and her emerald draconic eyes narrowed with purpose.
Her voice, cold and commanding, cut through the noise of the battlefield. "We move forward."
Her knights, a handful of men who had followed her faithfully, exchanged brief glances before they nodded, their faces grim but resolute. "For King Artorius!" one shouted, his voice ringing out in the din of war, and the group charged forward with a battle cry, weapons raised high.
But Artoria did not join them in their rush. Instead, she stood still, her gaze locked on the Saxons. She could see them in the distance—more than a hundred of them, spread out across the battlefield like a sea of darkness. The numbers didn't matter. Not to her.
With a fierce exhale, she stepped forward, her armor clinking with every movement. There was a calmness to her now, a deadly focus that had become second nature.
The Saxons saw her approach, and their reaction was swift—some charged, others gripped their shields tighter, but all of them hesitated. This was no ordinary foe. She was a vision of fury and grace, a knight in shining armor wielding a blade of legend. They were already outmatched in terms of skill, but now, confronted by her power, many faltered.
Artoria's lips curled into a thin, determined line as her sword hand tightened around Caliburn. Without a word, she moved.
Her feet barely touched the ground as she surged forward, like a tempest unleashed. Her speed was blinding. The first Saxon warrior lunged at her with a battle axe, but Artoria was already in motion. She parried the blow with a single, fluid motion, spinning her sword with the precision of a master. The Saxon's axe shattered on impact, and Artoria's next move was instantaneous—her blade cleaving through his torso, his blood staining the earth beneath him.
No hesitation. No mercy.
Another came at her, brandishing a spear. He thrust it toward her, but she sidestepped the blow with a graceful twist of her body. Caliburn flashed through the air, cutting through the spear and the man holding it in one smooth arc. He crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Artoria continued to move through the chaos, her strikes unstoppable. The Saxons tried to circle her, surrounding her with their numbers, but her strikes were precise, deadly, and as fast as the wind. With each slash, each swing of Caliburn, she tore through their ranks, her movements like a dance of destruction. They had no chance.
One after another, the Saxons fell before her. Their weapons were shattered, their bodies torn apart by her unrelenting assault. The battlefield was littered with the fallen, but still, she pushed forward, determined to clear the way to their leader.
Her men, watching her from the rear, were in awe. They had seen Artoria fight before, but this was different. This was no longer just a knight—they were witnessing the raw might of a future king.
"Move, move!" one of her knights shouted to the others as they followed her lead, their spirits lifted by the sight of her unstoppable power. They began to rally, cutting down the stragglers, but their eyes were on her. She was the storm, and they were simply the echo of it.
But Artoria's focus never wavered. She had to end this quickly. The Saxons, though fierce, were just rabble. She could feel their resolve crumbling as she tore through them, like weeds under a harrowing wind.
She reached the center of their forces, where the Saxon leaders were rallying their men, attempting to hold the line. They had realized that this wasn't just any knight—they could see her now, her power unleashed in all its fury. The remaining Saxons who had the courage to face her stepped forward, desperate to make a stand.
Artoria didn't pause. She barely slowed her stride. A Saxon with a jagged sword rushed at her, roaring as he raised his weapon high. Artoria spun on her heel, a single slash of Caliburn taking his head clean off.
Another warrior, larger and heavier than the rest, swung a massive axe at her. She caught the blow on the flat of her blade, the force of it reverberating through her arm. But Artoria did not flinch. She twisted her body, shifting her weight, and then drove Caliburn through the man's chest with a single thrust. He gurgled, his body crumpling to the ground as she stepped over him, her eyes still locked ahead.
She was unstoppable. She was a force of nature, a king's wrath incarnate.
But there, beyond the carnage, stood the Saxon leader. He was massive—bigger than any warrior Artoria had faced. His armor was adorned with furs and iron, his beard wild and unkempt. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto Artoria with a look of contempt.
Artoria stopped in her tracks, her eyes narrowing as she took in the leader's form. He held a massive war axe, his hand resting easily on the hilt.
"Do you think you can stop me?" the Saxon leader shouted, his voice deep and gravelly. He sneered at her, his men rallying behind him, though their resolve was clearly shaken.
Artoria said nothing at first. She took a step forward, her gaze unwavering.
"Your men are already defeated," she said calmly, her voice cutting through the din of the battlefield. "You have no hope. Surrender now, and I may spare you."
The Saxon leader laughed, a deep, mocking sound. "Spare me? Do you think me weak? You're just one knight. You may have slain my warriors, but you are still only one."
Artoria's eyes gleamed with fury, but there was no arrogance in her expression. There was only the cold, righteous anger of a warrior who had seen too much bloodshed to allow such an insult to stand.
"I am not just a knight," she said softly, stepping closer. "I am the king you never expected. And I will not allow you to desecrate this land any longer."
Her eyes hardened, and in the blink of an eye, she moved. Her sword cut through the air with the grace of a lioness hunting its prey. The Saxon leader raised his axe to defend, but it was too late. Artoria's Caliburn cleaved through his weapon with ease, and then, with one fluid motion, she brought her blade down on him.
He fell to his knees, stunned, before the final blow ended him.
The Saxons, seeing their leader fall so easily, began to break apart. Their morale shattered, they scattered like leaves in the wind, fleeing into the surrounding woods, their cries of fear echoing behind them.
Artoria stood amidst the carnage, her breath coming in steady bursts. The Saxons were defeated, and the village was safe. Her men, battered and bloodied, gathered around her, awe and admiration shining in their eyes.
Kay and Arthur rode up to her side.
Smoke still clung to the air, the stench of blood and burnt wood settling over the ravaged village. The last echoes of battle had faded into eerie silence, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the crackling embers of ruined homes.
Arthur wiped the edge of his blade clean against his cape, his stance composed despite the carnage around them. His golden hair, still pristine even in the aftermath of battle, caught the dull light of the overcast sky. He turned to his king with calm confidence.
"We've dealt with all the Saxons that were already within the village, on all sides," Arthur reported. His voice was level, but there was a sharp awareness beneath it, as if he were already calculating the next step.
Artoria, still astride her horse, let her green, draconic eyes scan the battlefield. Her knights were gathering survivors, tending to the wounded, securing the area. There was still work to be done.
Her gaze flickered toward Kay. His armor, his cloak—everything was drenched in blood, a stark contrast to Arthur, who, despite having fought just as fiercely, remained composed and almost untouched by the filth of war.
"Kay, you're covered in blood. Have you become sloppy?" she asked, her tone neutral but edged with something faintly resembling amusement.
Kay, who had been wiping the sweat from his forehead, turned to her with an incredulous look. "Eh?"
He glanced down at himself, as if just now realizing the sheer amount of blood caking his armor and gauntlets. Some of it was his, but most of it wasn't. He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "That's rich coming from you two. Look at yourselves—Arthur over here barely looks like he lifted a damn sword, and you, my king—" he gestured vaguely at her, "—somehow look like you just stepped out of Camelot's halls, all pristine and proper. Meanwhile, I look like I bathed in a battlefield."
Arthur gave him a dispassionate glance. "Perhaps you lack refinement in your technique."
Kay scoffed, rolling his shoulders. "Or perhaps I was actually doing my job instead of making sure I looked presentable while killing people."
Artoria, already swinging herself onto her steed as her horse rode up beside her, merely gave a small nod, clearly unfazed. "Efficiency and control are what separate a knight from a mere warrior. You should learn from Arthur."
Kay groaned, throwing up his hands. "Unbelievable. Two perfect little swordsmen judging me after I bled for this fight."
Arthur ignored his complaints, his focus shifting back to the battlefield. The Saxons who had survived were either fleeing or dead. This village had been reclaimed—at least for now.
"You've done it," Kay eventually said, his voice still rough but carrying a deep weight of respect. "These Saxons are broken."
Arthur gave a small nod, his sharp blue eyes surveying the remains of the battle. "For now."
Artoria sat atop her horse, looking out toward the distant horizon where the remnants of the Saxon force had scattered. She knew this was far from over. The Saxons were like a tide—relentless, ever returning. One battle did not win a war.
"This was only one front," she murmured. "The true fight is still ahead of us."
Her knights fell silent at that, the weight of her words sinking in. They had won today, but tomorrow, the fires of war would be lit again. And King Artorius would have to be ready.
Kay sighed. "Wonderful. More battles, more blood, and I'll be the only one looking like a corpse while you two gleam like royal portraits."
Arthur gave him a flat look, while Artoria—just for a moment—allowed the smallest ghost of a smile to cross her lips.
"Then perhaps you should learn to fight more cleanly, Sir Kay."
Kay groaned again. "Damn knights."
—
Night had fallen over the battlefield, and with it came the cold. The lingering scent of blood and smoke clung to the air as knights moved about, setting up camp in the ruins of the reclaimed village. Fires flickered in makeshift pits, their glow casting long shadows against the broken remnants of homes.
Arthur followed closely behind Artoria, his sharp blue eyes never leaving her back. The battle had been won, but the weight of it had not left her shoulders.
Kay had been ordered to oversee the rest of the knights as they pitched tents, gathered supplies, and tended to the wounded. He had grumbled about the task, but Artoria had been insistent—perhaps because she knew she needed a moment away from the others.
Her tent had been erected first, as was custom for a king, and without a word, she strode inside. Arthur followed, quiet and observant, expecting her to begin planning their next course of action.
But the moment she stepped past the threshold, Artoria's body faltered. Her breath hitched, her legs gave way, and she crumbled to her knees.
Arthur moved instantly, catching her before she could collapse entirely. His grip was firm yet careful as he knelt beside her, green eyes filled with sudden concern.
"Artoria," he called, his voice steady but laced with worry. "Are you alright?"
For a long moment, she didn't respond. Her head hung low, golden bangs casting a shadow over her eyes. Her armored chest rose and fell unevenly, her breath sharp and ragged.
Then, barely above a whisper, she spoke.
"I killed them, Arthur."
Arthur's breath caught.
"I took a human life."
Silence stretched between them. The sounds of the camp outside—clanking armor, murmured voices, the crackling of flames—felt distant, as if muffled by the weight of her words.
Arthur's grip on her shoulders tightened slightly. He had seen her fight, seen the way she carved through enemies with the precision of a king, with the skill of a warrior fated to lead. But this moment—this was different.
"Artoria..." he started, his voice softer now.
She trembled, her fists clenching against her armored thighs. "I have trained for this. I have prepared for war. I knew what it meant to take up the sword, to become the ruler Britain needed." Her voice wavered, raw with something she rarely allowed herself to feel. "But knowing it and doing it... they are not the same."
Arthur understood. He had been raised as a knight, had always known that battle and bloodshed were inevitable. But the first time he had taken a life—it had stayed with him. The sensation of steel cutting through flesh, the brief resistance before the body gave way, the finality of it. It was something one never forgot.
"Taking a life is not easy," Arthur admitted. "And it should not be."
Artoria's hands curled into fists. "But I am not just a knight. I am King Artorius." Her voice hardened, though the slight tremor remained. "A king does not hesitate. A king does not falter. And yet..." She swallowed, her draconic green eyes lifting to meet Arthur's. "Why does my heart feel so heavy?"
Arthur studied her for a moment before answering. "Because you are still human."
Her breath hitched.
"You carry the weight of this kingdom, but you are not a machine, Artoria. You are a person. And a just king—the kind of king you strive to be—should never take lives without feeling their weight." He exhaled, his expression steady yet solemn. "That burden will never go away. Nor should it."
Artoria closed her eyes, her breathing slowing, steadied by his words.
Arthur shifted slightly, his tone firm yet understanding. "But you did what was necessary. If you had hesitated, your men would have fallen. The village would have burned. The Saxons would have slaughtered the innocent."
She let out a slow, shuddering breath.
"You chose to bear this burden so that others would not have to," Arthur continued. "That is what it means to be a king."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was heavy but not suffocating.
Then, slowly, Artoria exhaled and pushed herself up, her movements deliberate. Arthur remained kneeling, watching as she squared her shoulders, forcing her emotions into submission.
She met his gaze, the fire in her eyes returning, tempered but not extinguished. "I will not let this break me."
Arthur gave a small nod. "Nor would I expect you to."
Artoria took another breath before turning toward the entrance of the tent. "There is still much to do. The wounded need tending, and the camp must be secured. We march at dawn."
Arthur rose to his feet, watching her carefully. Though she had steadied herself, he knew the weight of her actions would not vanish overnight.
"Very well," he said. "Then let us ensure you are prepared for what comes next, King Artorius."
Artoria turned to him at the name—the name the world knew her by, the name that denied her true self.
And yet, at this moment, she embraced it.
Artoria sat on the edge of a wooden table, her gauntleted hands resting on its surface as she studied a map of Britain. But her mind wasn't on strategy.
Her thoughts were elsewhere—on the weight of battle, on the lives she had taken, and on the man standing beside her.
"Arthur."
The name left her lips suddenly, almost unbidden.
Arthur, who had been lost in his own thoughts, turned to her. His striking blue eyes, so similar yet so different from her own, met hers with quiet curiosity. "Yes, Artoria?"
She hesitated for a brief moment before asking, "How many battles have you been through?"
Arthur blinked, then gave a small shake of his head. "This was my first."
Artoria stiffened.
"Wh-what?" she uttered, unable to mask her shock.
Arthur's expression remained calm, composed—eerily so. He stood with his usual regal posture, his presence exuding an unwavering sense of nobility, yet there was something unsettling about the way he spoke.
"I have never fought anyone to the death before today." His voice remained gentle, almost soothing, as if he were speaking about the weather rather than the lives he had ended. "And yet, I did not hesitate."
A coldness settled in Artoria's chest.
Arthur's gaze did not waver. His tone did not sharpen. His hands did not shake. "That is because I am a monster."
The words fell like a blade between them, cutting through the silence.
Artoria stared at him, searching for something in his expression—guilt, remorse, regret. But there was nothing. Not even the slightest tremor in his voice.
"You are not a monster," she said firmly.
"Aren't I?" Arthur tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely curious. "I took lives without hesitation. I did not falter. My blade did not slow. I felt no fear. No doubt. No remorse." He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as though testing their weight. "Should that not trouble me?"
Artoria opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat.
She had hesitated after her first kill. She had felt the weight of her actions pressing down on her like a curse. She had questioned herself, had doubted whether she was worthy of being a king.
But Arthur... he spoke of slaughter as if it were second nature to him.
"Arthur," she said, softer now, carefully choosing her words. "A knight cannot afford to hesitate in battle. That does not make you a monster."
He let out a quiet hum, almost as if considering her words. "Perhaps."
Yet something about his tone unsettled her.
"Did it feel easy to you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Arthur was silent for a moment.
Then, finally, he answered.
"Yes."
A cold shiver ran down Artoria's spine.
Arthur did not look disturbed by his own admission. If anything, he looked... at peace.
"I was raised to be a knight. I have always known that one day, I would have to take a life in service to my people. And when that day came, my hands did not tremble. My heart did not waver." His gaze met hers again, clear and unwavering. "If I am meant to be a knight, then should I not be relieved by this?"
Artoria clenched her jaw.
She had seen the burden of kingship weigh heavily upon those who ruled. She had felt it herself, crushing her under its expectations. Yet Arthur...
He spoke as though he had already embraced it entirely.
"Being able to kill without hesitation does not make you a great knight, Arthur," she said, her voice steady despite the unease curling in her chest.
"Then what does?" he asked.
Artoria exhaled slowly, looking past him toward the dim glow of torches beyond the tent.
Outside, the low murmur of knights setting up camp filled the night, but within the tent, there was only silence between them.
Arthur stood tall, his presence unwavering, even as he spoke words that should have been burdened with weight.
"I told you before, that guilt you feel is normal," Arthur said, his voice as steady as ever. "It probably is."
Artoria watched him carefully, her emerald eyes searching his face for something—hesitation, doubt, regret. Anything that would tell her he was struggling, that the battlefield had left its mark on him the way it had on her.
But there was nothing.
Arthur met her gaze, unreadable, his blue eyes calm as a still lake. "However, I cannot feel that remorse."
The admission sat heavily between them.
Artoria swallowed, but she did not look away. "Arthur..."
He did not give her a chance to speak further.
"You are the first and likely only person I will tell this to," he continued, taking a single step closer. "Because as you lean on me, I will lean upon you."
Artoria's breath caught in her throat.
"This is what I swear to you now, just as I swore to be your knight when you became king." Arthur knelt before her, grasping her gauntleted hand in his own. His grip was firm, unshaking.
"This time, I swear to you, Artoria," he said, his voice low, reverent. "I will follow you. Never fear me, for I will be your true blade. I will cut down all opposition in your path, because I am the monster that will not feel remorse or regret."
A vow.
A promise soaked in devotion, and yet... there was something chilling about it.
Artoria stared down at him, his expression so serene, so utterly at peace with the role he had assigned himself. He was not boasting. He was not seeking reassurance. He was simply stating what he had accepted himself to be.
A sword with no hesitation.
A knight who would bear the burden she could not.
"Arthur, you—" She hesitated. How could she tell him he was wrong when he had already accepted this as his truth?
Her free hand clenched at her side.
"You are not a monster," she said firmly.
Arthur blinked, tilting his head ever so slightly, as if waiting for her next words.
Artoria inhaled, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest. "You are a saint. A saint of the blade. The Sword Saint of Camelot."
Arthur's expression did not change. He did not refute her words, nor did he acknowledge them as truth. He simply nodded, as though her judgment of him did not matter.
"Then let me be your saint, Artoria," he said softly. "And let my blade never falter for you."
Artoria tightened her grip on his hand.
Somewhere deep inside her, she wondered if she had just let him step onto a path he could never return from.
(A/N: Sorry for the extremely long chapter! I completely lost track of the word count while writing, and by the time I noticed, it had already reached 7K words.)