The morning air was crisp, a stark contrast to the heat that had consumed them the night before. Arthur stirred from sleep, instinctively aware of the warmth pressed against him. The weight of a slender yet undeniably strong arm was draped over his waist, fingers twitching faintly in slumber.
His mind was slow to wake, but the memories of the night prior were vivid.
A night that had blurred the line between duty and desire, between restraint and surrender.
Slowly, he shifted, careful not to wake the woman beside him. Artoria barely stirred, her breath even, her golden hair fanned out across the ruined remains of their tent. The once sturdy structure had been reduced to little more than torn fabric and snapped wooden supports, a testament to the sheer intensity of their union.
Arthur exhaled, running a hand through his tangled hair before glancing down at himself—at the mess that lingered on his body, evidence of what had transpired. A faint grimace tugged at his lips; he was covered in sweat, dirt, and remnants of their passion.
I should clean myself.
Shifting further, he gently eased Artoria's arm off of him. Even in sleep, she resisted, fingers flexing slightly as though reluctant to let go. A small frown formed between her brows, her body instinctively seeking his warmth.
Arthur stilled for a moment, watching her.
She was—beautiful.
Not in the delicate, fragile way many would assume of a queen, but in the way a storm was beautiful—wild, untamed, and undeniable. Her breathing was slow, but her lips were parted ever so slightly, exhaustion evident in the way her body remained loose and unguarded.
Yet Arthur knew better.
Artoria was not the type to succumb to something as mortal as fatigue, not truly. She would wake soon, likely at the slightest shift in his presence.
She is still adjusting to this... to us.
Even now, he questioned whether what they had done was the right thing. It had been inevitable—the tension between them had burned for too long, unspoken yet always there. But the weight of what they had crossed into was heavy.
His sense of duty had always warned him against this.
But last night—when she had looked at him with such certainty, when she had commanded him to show her, to take what had been waiting between them—he had not been able to refuse.
Nor did he want to.
Arthur let out a slow breath, pushing himself upright. The motion caused Artoria to stir slightly, but she remained asleep, exhaustion—or perhaps contentment—keeping her still.
Rising to his feet, he winced as the cool morning air kissed his bare skin. He reached for a cloth, draping it loosely over his waist, before turning his attention back to Artoria.
Even in sleep, she was his king.
A flicker of something unreadable stirred in his chest, but he set it aside.
Grabbing another cloth, he carefully covered her form, ensuring she was shielded from the elements before stepping out of the ruined tent.
The camp was quiet, save for the distant rustling of the trees and the occasional chirp of birds. The embers of last night's fire still smoldered faintly, glowing in the dim morning light.
Arthur exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
He needed water.
And time to think.
With a final glance toward the tent—toward the sleeping woman who had, in one night, completely rewritten the rules he had lived by—Arthur set off in search of a lake.
Arthur found the lake nestled between the trees, its surface a still mirror reflecting the pale hues of dawn. The air was crisp, the scent of damp earth and fresh water filling his lungs as he approached the edge. He didn't hesitate—he couldn't. Stepping forward, he waded into the lake, feeling the icy water lap against his skin, chasing away the lingering heat of the night before.
He needed this.
Not just to cleanse himself, but to think.
To understand.
Dunking himself beneath the surface, he allowed the cold to bite at his senses, shocking away any remaining haze clouding his mind. When he resurfaced, he inhaled deeply, the weight in his chest still there, though changed. It was not guilt—no, he had none of that.
Instead, there was understanding.
Artoria... had not hesitated.
She had not wavered, nor questioned herself when she had taken him.
For the first time since he had met her, she had made a choice purely for herself. Not as a king. Not as the wielder of Caliburn. Not as a savior to Britain.
Just as Artoria.
And for that reason alone, Arthur could not bring himself to regret it.
No manipulation. No obligation. No prophecy.
She had wanted him.
The realization struck him harder than the cold water ever could.
The Artoria he had known had always been shackled—by duty, by expectation, by the very weight of the crown she bore. He had seen it in her eyes, the quiet suffering she had always endured, the way she placed everything above herself.
But last night, she had broken free of those chains.
And he had let her.
No—he had welcomed it.
Closing his eyes, Arthur ran a hand through his wet hair, exhaling as the water dripped from his face.
What did this mean for them?
He had always fought against it, restrained himself at every turn. Not just because of duty, but because he had feared what it would mean for her. Would it distract her? Would it weigh on her? Would it be something she came to regret?
And yet, she had stood before him last night, so sure.
"Then show me."
He could still hear the conviction in her voice, the demand laced with vulnerability. The plea she had not spoken, but that he had understood all the same.
She had needed him. Not as a knight, nor a fellow king—but as Arthur, as her Arthur.
And he had given himself to her.
A part of him had expected to wake with doubt, to question whether he had done the right thing.
But he didn't.
Instead, as he floated in the water, feeling the weight of the night settle into something real, something unchangeable, he knew one thing with certainty.
There was no going back.
And for the first time in his life, he found that he did not mind.
Arthur had always accepted the world as it was.
Every hardship, every burden placed upon him—he took them as natural consequences of the life he led. Cause and effect. Nothing more. There was no reason to reject what simply was. If something came against him, he faced it. If something was given to him, he bore it. To resist without reason was unnecessary.
And so, he never acted outside of what was expected. Never reached beyond the role he was given.
Until her.
Until Artoria.
His choice to train her all those years ago had been the first thing he had ever done not out of duty, not out of necessity, but simply because he wanted to.
And that had changed everything.
Arthur exhaled slowly, letting his head tilt back into the water. The lake was still, the only sound being the gentle rippling from his movements. He felt weightless—adrift between the past and the present, caught in the realization that Artoria had been the one who had shifted his world.
He had known she was special the moment he met her. A young squire, small but unyielding, with a fire in her heart.
And perhaps that was why he had acted—why he had chosen to be her teacher, her guide, and for so long, her distant pillar of strength. Because for the first time, he had found someone he wanted to protect, not just as a king, but as Arthur.
But he had held himself back.
Because he feared what it would mean for her.
Because he feared what it would mean for him.
Last night, that final restraint had broken.
She had reached for him with no hesitation, no doubt, no expectation of duty or fate.
Just as he had chosen to train her, she had chosen him.
The memory of her lips against his burned in his mind. The sheer intensity in her emerald eyes as she claimed him—not as her subject, not as her knight, but as hers.
Arthur took a slow breath, sinking into the water for a moment before rising again.
Was this what it meant to act for oneself?
He had spent so long prioritizing duty over desire, responsibility over want. But when he had held her, when she had whispered his name, when she had bared herself completely, there had been no sense of guilt.
Only certainty.
Only her.
And now, knowing what had passed between them, he could no longer return to the man he had been before.
He wouldn't.
Because this—she—was the first thing he had ever truly wanted.
—
Artoria stirred, her body sluggish with the weight of sleep. A strange sensation coursed through her—a fullness, a warmth deep within her muscles, unlike anything she had ever felt before. It was... unfamiliar. Foreign, yet not unpleasant.
And then, the memories surfaced.
The heat of his hands against her skin. The way he had held her, as though she were something sacred, something to be cherished rather than revered. The rawness of it, the tenderness, the way their breaths had intertwined as they crossed a threshold neither of them could return from.
Her chest tightened, and a flush of red crept up her face.
She had been the one to kiss him.
It had started with that. The boldness, the sheer certainty in her heart when she had pulled him to her, when she had let instinct guide her rather than duty.
And he had responded.
Not as the Saint of Camelot, not as a knight, but as Arthur.
The memory of it sent a shiver through her, and as she shifted slightly, she felt it again—that strange, residual sensation. A reminder of what had transpired between them.
Her blush deepened as flashes of last night came back to her. The first time had been... overwhelming. A moment of hesitation, of discovery. But after—after that—it had become something else.
Something unstoppable.
Artoria shook her head quickly, trying to steady herself.
She pulled herself up slowly, the sheet sliding against her skin, and as she moved, she felt something trail down her thigh. A slick sensation, unmistakable.
Her breath hitched.
Eyes darting down, she pulled the cloth aside, revealing the evidence of their union. Her face burned impossibly hotter, fingers gripping the fabric of the sheet.
Arthur...
She exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together as if to keep herself from spiraling any further. This was no time to get lost in emotions.
Her gaze swept the tent, searching for him.
The blanket wrapped around her hadn't been there before. She certainly hadn't placed it on herself.
Arthur must have...
That thought alone softened her expression. Even after everything, he had still thought to preserve her modesty, to shield her from the morning chill.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the cloth, gripping it a little tighter.
She needed to find him.
Needed to see him.
Because after last night—after everything—they could no longer act as if nothing had changed.
Stepping out of the tent, Artoria was greeted by the crisp morning air, tinged with the faint scent of damp earth and smoke. It was peaceful—serene, even—but the moment she inhaled deeply, another scent reached her. Something rich, warm. Food.
Her stomach growled in response, betraying her.
She exhaled, composing herself before calling out, "Arthur."
He turned at the sound of her voice, his golden hair catching the morning light like a crown spun from sunlight. "Artoria," he greeted, and then he smiled.
Her breath caught.
That smile... It was different. A softness that wasn't simply kindness, but something deeper. Something hers.
The realization sent a warmth through her chest, and for the briefest moment, she felt unsteady. She had seen him smile countless times before—whether out of courtesy, camaraderie, or even in moments of victory—but this was different.
This was for her.
Just as she was about to speak, Arthur stood and closed the distance between them in a few strides. Before she could react, before she could even fully process what was happening, he wrapped an arm around her and pressed his lips to hers.
A small gasp escaped her at the sheer certainty of it—there was no hesitation in him, no second-guessing. He simply accepted this, accepted her, as though there had never been any doubt.
It was Artoria who had acted first last night, who had been the one to choose. She had half-expected to wake up to uncertainty, to unspoken words lingering between them like a fragile thread waiting to snap.
But there was nothing fragile about this.
Arthur accepted what had changed between them without a moment's pause.
And that realization—more than anything—made her chest tighten with something overwhelming, something she couldn't quite name.
Her arms instinctively moved to grasp at his tunic, pulling him closer as she returned the kiss with just as much quiet urgency. A slow heat built between them, lingering, intoxicating.
By the time they broke apart, the space between them felt almost unbearable. A thin strand of saliva connected their lips, a silent testament to what had just passed between them.
Arthur leaned in just slightly, his forehead brushing against hers. His voice was low when he murmured, "There's a lake a short walk from here. You can bathe there." A small pause, then softer still, "When you return, we'll talk."
Artoria swallowed, nodding faintly. "Very well, Arthur..."
Even as she turned, even as she walked in the direction he gestured, she could still feel his warmth against her lips.
And for the first time in a long, long while... she allowed herself to hope.
Fresh from her bath, Artoria felt the cool air against her damp skin, her golden hair clinging lightly to her shoulders. There was a strange lightness in her chest, as if a weight she hadn't realized she was carrying had finally been lifted. The tension, the uncertainty—gone.
As she approached, Arthur was focused on his task, carefully placing food onto a plate, his expression as composed as ever. Yet, there was a quiet ease in his movements, a sense of normalcy that made her lips curve into the faintest smile.
Without thinking, she stepped behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek lightly against his back.
"Arthur, I'm back."
His body tensed for only a moment before relaxing into her touch. "Good," he replied simply, his voice steady, as if he had been waiting for her.
The moment she loosened her grip, Arthur moved with quiet decisiveness, turning and pulling her onto his lap in one swift motion. A small gasp left her lips—not from surprise, but from the sheer certainty in his actions.
Settling her comfortably against him, he reached for another plate and placed it in her hands. "Artoria, would you like to have some?"
She didn't hesitate. "Of course."
With the same practiced efficiency she approached combat, she immediately began to eat, holding the plate close as if she were protecting a treasure.
Arthur couldn't help but chuckle at the sight. There was something oddly endearing about how she guarded her food, like a lioness keeping a prized kill from being stolen.
His arm remained firmly around her, pulling her even closer against him. He could feel the steady warmth of her against his chest, her presence filling a space he hadn't realized had been empty.
He didn't know why, but he needed this—her touch, her presence. No, needed was too strong a word. Wanted would be more accurate.
Yet, to him, there was little difference.
He wanted the way she looked at him, the way she spoke his name, the way she had chosen him with no hesitation.
He wanted her.
If only...
A gentle voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Arthur?"
He blinked, realizing he had been staring at her without speaking. She was still perched on his lap, her sharp blue eyes studying him with quiet concern.
"Hmm?"
She hesitated, then glanced down at her plate before carefully breaking off a small piece of food. Holding it up to him, she asked, "Would you like some?"
Arthur's eyes widened.
For a moment, he simply looked at her—at the way her expression softened, at the unspoken meaning behind her simple offer.
She was sharing with him.
The King of eating.
Something inside his chest tightened, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his lips brushing against her fingertips as he took the offered bite.
It was warm. Simple.
Yet, in that moment, it was everything.
Arthur watched her with a quiet smile, accepting the small piece of food she offered. As his lips brushed against her fingertips, he felt the warmth of her touch linger even as she pulled her hand away.
Artoria simply smiled, her expression soft but filled with something deeper—something unspoken between them.
For a moment, he allowed himself to revel in the simple intimacy of it. The way she sat comfortably in his lap, the way her presence felt right in a way he couldn't quite describe.
But he knew this couldn't last forever.
His expression sobered as he exhaled quietly. "Artoria... what are we going to do?"
The shift in his tone made her pause. She looked at him with a small tilt of her head, her golden brows furrowing slightly.
"What do you mean, Arthur?" she asked, voice calm, almost casual. "We will finish our journey, retrieve a new blade, and then return to Camelot. Nothing has changed."
Arthur's arms instinctively tightened around her at her words, his grip firm but not forceful. He hadn't meant to, but he couldn't help it.
Artoria merely smiled in response.
Then, with the same unwavering resolve she carried into battle, she raised a hand to his cheek, her fingers resting lightly against his skin. Her touch was warm, grounding.
Her gaze met his, steady and filled with an unshakable certainty.
"Don't worry, Arthur." Her voice was soft, yet resolute. "This will be our secret. A secret we won't halt, but instead, will allow to blossom—only in secret."
She leaned in slightly, her breath warm against his lips. "The greatest secret in all of Britain."
Arthur felt his chest tighten. The way she spoke, with such conviction, left no room for hesitation.
She had already decided.
"I won't stop our relationship. Nothing will."
Her draconic pupils contracted slightly, watching him intently, as if committing every detail of him to memory. There was no hesitation in her eyes, no uncertainty. Only him.
Arthur let out a slow breath, his free hand coming up to cover hers where it rested against his cheek. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if grounding himself in her touch, before reopening them to meet hers once more.
"Artoria..." He wanted to tell her that it wouldn't be that simple. That secrets had a way of unraveling. That the weight of the crown—the weight of their duty—would always hang between them.
But looking at her now, seeing the quiet determination in her expression, he knew there was no arguing.
Instead, he leaned in and pressed a slow, lingering kiss against her forehead, his grip around her waist softening.
"Then so be it." His voice was low, steady, accepting. "Our secret."
A flicker of something passed through Artoria's eyes before she smiled again, this time with the warmth of someone who had won.