Artoria frowned, her grip tightening around the parchment in her hands. The weight of the words pressed down on her like a sword poised at her throat. She had known Merlin long enough to expect his schemes, but this—this was a betrayal of her trust in him.
Across the room, the magus leaned casually against the stone wall, arms crossed, watching her reaction with the same infuriating air of amusement he always carried.
"It was either you or Arthur," Merlin said simply. "And if it were Arthur, we would have to reveal his heritage—just as we did yours. You know what that would mean."
Artoria's expression darkened, her divine energy flaring for an instant, an unseen force pressing against the air. The very foundation of the room seemed to tremble under the sheer weight of her presence.
"We don't need this," she said, her voice firm, controlled. "Me and Arthur could have solidified Britain's strength alone. Political marriages like this—*"
"Are a necessity," Merlin interrupted, unfazed by the divine pressure bearing down on him. "Be realistic, Artoria."
She set the parchment down, staring at the inked words as if they were something vile.
"The only way you could stabilize Britain to such a degree would be through absolute power," Merlin continued, his tone ever patient. "And that, you do not have. No matter how strong you are, you alone cannot make Britain stand against the weight of the world. Even if you had Arthur by your side, even if you both stood at your absolute peak, Britain would still be vulnerable."
Artoria's jaw tightened.
"You think so little of me," she muttered, her voice low, cold.
Merlin sighed. "No, I think realistically. A single warrior—even one as extraordinary as you—is not enough. Do you believe you alone can protect Britain from all its threats? From the Saxons? The Picts? Rome? The countless enemies within and outside our borders? From Morgan?"
That name struck deeper than she would have liked. Artoria's fingers curled into fists at the mention of her treacherous sister.
"I will defeat Morgan," she said, more to herself than to him.
"And what about after that?" Merlin pressed. "What happens the next time an enemy rises? And the next? Will you hold Excalibur forever? Will Arthur? Will your descendants? What happens when you are gone?"
Artoria said nothing.
A moment of silence passed between them. The weight of responsibility, the inescapable burden of the crown, settled upon her shoulders once more.
And then—she felt it.
A quiet flutter in her abdomen.
The faintest of movements.
She exhaled, her hand coming to rest over the barely noticeable swell of her stomach. A reminder of the life she now carried.
Her child. Arthur's child.
A warmth filled her chest at the thought, but with it came a deeper fear—Merlin's words held a cruel truth. She was not just fighting for herself or Arthur anymore. She was fighting for the future of a kingdom, for the life she now bore.
Still, the thought of standing before Arthur and telling him this—telling him that she was to be wed to another—twisted something deep within her.
Merlin must have noticed her hesitation, because he softened—just slightly.
"I know what this means for you," he said, quieter this time. "I do. And if there were another way, I would not ask this of you."
Artoria closed her eyes for a brief moment.
"I—I don't want to betray Arthur."
Her voice wavered, but her grip on the table's edge was unrelenting.
Merlin stood across from her, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "It won't be a betrayal," he said, his voice carrying the same infuriating pragmatism it always did. "Arthur, once he claims Dumnonia, will likely have to do the same."
Something inside Artoria recoiled at those words.
Her aura flared—divine energy crackling like unseen lightning in the air, pressing down with the weight of something vast and potent. For a brief moment, Merlin felt it. The presence of a deity, the overwhelming force of her existence as something beyond human.
"That won't happen."
Merlin raised a brow, unfazed. "Possessive much?" he quipped, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips before he sighed, shaking his head. "Artoria, you can't stop this from happening. You may be a great king, but you are not invincible. You must understand that even you cannot stand against the realities of politics and power."
Artoria's fingers dug into the wood beneath her hands.
"No, I can."
Merlin had already begun turning toward the door, assuming that, as always, she would resign herself to the necessity of sacrifice. But at her words, he stopped.
"I'll reveal my true gender."
The sorcerer's head snapped back toward her, his sharp eyes locking onto hers in disbelief. "What?"
"If I reveal my true gender now," Artoria said, voice steadying as the idea formed in her mind, "then I won't have to enter a marriage—not immediately. I could delay it, just long enough for Arthur to return. And when he does, we could marry. We could unite Dumnonia and Britain
Merlin's expression darkened, the humor in his features vanishing like mist before the dawn. "That could destroy everything, Artoria," he said flatly. "Everything you built. This kingdom, the war against the Anglo-Saxons—it would all be for nothing."
"No," Artoria countered, standing. "Not if we do it correctly."
Merlin exhaled through his nose, but she continued before he could interrupt.
"I would reveal it first to the Knights of the Round. If they see that I am no different than before, that I am still the same king they have always followed, then their loyalty will remain unwavering. If I have the Round Table's full support, then I can move to my political allies among the nobility and prevent rebellion before it even begins."
Merlin's frown deepened, but Artoria pressed on.
"You can frame it," she insisted, stepping toward him. "You can spread the idea that Caliburn chooses the rightful ruler, not gender. If I display my divine judgment, if the people see that I still wield the sword of selection, they will believe that this is the will of the heavens. If I do this in front of the public—if I stand before them not as a woman but as their King, backed by divine authority—then no one will question my right to rule."
She stopped, her chest rising and falling with barely contained emotion.
Merlin studied her for a long, heavy moment.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he finally said, his voice quieter now. "This isn't just about you and Arthur anymore. If you fail—if even one of your assumptions is wrong—then Britain will collapse into chaos. You understand that, don't you?"
Artoria didn't look away. "I understand."
Merlin let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. "I should have known you'd be this stubborn," he muttered. Then, after a moment, he let out a dry chuckle. "You sound just like him, you know."
A faint flush of warmth crept into Artoria's chest at the thought. She lowered her gaze slightly, her fingers brushing the fabric of her cloak.
Merlin watched her, then sighed again, as if resigning himself to the inevitable. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"
Artoria's lips curled in the slightest of smiles. "No."
Merlin shook his head. "Alright, then. If you're so determined to risk everything, we'll need a plan. A real one."
Merlin studied her, his sharp gaze assessing every flicker of emotion that passed over her face. Finally, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before speaking again.
"Artoria," he said, his voice unusually gentle, yet laced with the ever-present edge of pragmatism. "You need to consider something—seriously consider it."
She turned her gaze toward him, waiting.
"You should think about a polyamorous arrangement with Arthur."
The words hung in the air, weighty and unyielding.
Artoria's breath stilled. Her fingers twitched slightly where they rested against her cloak, but she said nothing.
Merlin continued, unfazed by her silence. "I know it may not be what you want, but there are some threats better avoided than taken head-on. If Arthur is to rule, if Dumnonia is to be secured, then certain… expectations will be placed upon you both. The nobles, the church, even your own knights—many would see a union between you and Arthur as the perfect way to cement stability. But if that path becomes impossible, then—"
"No."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't forceful. But the sheer finality in her voice made even Merlin pause.
Artoria turned to him fully, her expression composed, but her eyes—those unwavering, steadfast eyes—burned with something resolute. "Arthur is my equal. If I must share him, if he must take another for the sake of duty, then so be it. But I will not plan for it. I will not enter into this already expecting to lose him."
Merlin let out a slow breath, watching her carefully.
"Love makes fools of even the strongest," he murmured.
"I am no fool," Artoria countered, lifting her chin. "I have always known what my duty entails. But I will not surrender before the battle has even begun."
A flicker of something crossed Merlin's face—not quite amusement, not quite pity. Perhaps something like understanding.
He exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Fine," he said, voice lighter now, though the weight of their conversation still lingered. "Let's return to the matter at hand, then—the reveal."
Artoria nodded. There was no hesitation this time. "Yes. We should continue."
And just like that, the conversation shifted—but something unspoken remained between them, lingering in the silence like the ghost of a future yet to be decided.
—--
Arthur's blade moved with terrifying precision, cutting through his opposition with the ease of a master sculptor carving stone. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation—only the sharp, decisive flow of combat.
Ulquiorra moved beside him, his presence a stark contrast to Arthur's. Where the king's sword was swift and unrelenting, Ulquiorra's attacks were cold and methodical, a quiet destruction.
"You are rather proficient with your blade," Ulquiorra observed, his tone as impassive as ever.
Arthur did not glance at him, his sword already cleaving through another foe. "I should hope so," he replied evenly.
It was an understatement. Tier, watching from the side as she fought, saw no flaws in his technique. His footwork was immaculate, his grip unshakable. Every strike was both an offense and a defense, as though he could see every possible move before it happened.
This was the power of the Sword Saint of Camelot.
And yet, as perfect as his technique was, his raw physical ability—while formidable—wasn't entirely beyond reach. At her full strength, Tier believed she could at least match his speed. His power came not from brute force, but from an understanding of battle so profound that even the smallest misstep could be his opponent's last.
Faye remained at a distance, weaving spells into the battlefield with careful precision. Support, not spectacle. That was how she fought—allowing Arthur, Tier, and Ulquiorra to dominate the field while she ensured that the tide of battle never turned against them.
The last enemy fell with a dull thud.
Arthur exhaled, wiping the blood from his blade before nodding toward the largest tent in the camp. "Let's move."
The four of them approached the tent, the air thick with something wrong.
Two men stood at the entrance—guards, but there was something off about them. Their eyes were vacant, their hands clenched into tight fists at their sides.
Then there was the chanting.
Inside, figures in heavy robes knelt in rows, their heads bowed as they muttered in low, rhythmic voices. Their words were twisted, unnatural—an old tongue warped into something that barely sounded human.
Faye felt a shiver crawl up her spine. "What are they saying?" she whispered.
One of the magi lifted his head, eyes gleaming with eerie reverence.
"They pray to the one beyond the veil," he murmured.
Arthur's grip on Excalibur tightened. "What god do you speak of?"
The magus smiled, a slow, almost dreamlike motion. "The one who comes from the Void."
Silence.
Ulquiorra's gaze darkened. Tier shifted slightly, fingers twitching toward her weapon.
Arthur took a single step forward.
Arthur felt it—a presence unlike anything he had encountered before.
It wasn't just power.
It was something deeper, something fundamentally wrong.
His very existence recoiled against it, every fiber of his being recognizing the sheer wrongness of what was taking shape before him. It was a threat not just to Dumnonia, but to the world itself.
And so, his body moved before his mind had time to think.
His grip on Excalibur Reid tightened as he surged forward, the golden blade humming with power as it cut through the air.
The guards at the tent's entrance reacted too late. They barely had time to register Arthur's charge before two shadows moved in tandem—Tier and Ulquiorra.
The instant Arthur passed them, the two guards snapped out of their trance, hands darting toward their weapons.
They never got the chance.
Tier moved first, faster than the human eye could track. She was a blur of teal and steel, her blade gleaming under the dim light as she tore through her opponent. She struck without hesitation, her footwork flawless, her technique refined to an art. The guard barely had time to parry before she pivoted, her sword sliding past his defense and carving through his torso. Blood sprayed across the dirt, his body collapsing before he even registered his own death.
Ulquiorra, by contrast, was cold precision.
His opponent lunged at him, sword aimed straight for his heart. But the pale man did not move in haste—he simply shifted. The blade missed by mere inches, the air around him distorting as he reappeared behind his opponent in a single, seamless step. His fingers flicked, a green glow forming at the tip.
The guard barely turned before Ulquiorra's Bala tore through his skull.
The corpse slumped to the ground, lifeless.
A flick of his wrist, and the energy dissipated. He didn't spare the body a glance. "Disappointing," he murmured.
From a distance, Faye watched, weaving her magecraft with calculated precision.
She didn't waste her mana on excessive spells. only control.
A sigil lit up beneath Tier's feet, enhancing her agility at the perfect moment.
A flick of her wrist sent a current of wind slicing through the battlefield, disrupting an incoming attack before it could reach Ulquiorra.
Every spell she cast was an extension of the battle, amplifying her allies' strengths rather than stealing the stage.
And then—
The air was thick with something vile, suffocating in its presence.
The chanting grew louder.
The magi knelt in rows, their voices rising in a crescendo as they called upon something from beyond mortal comprehension. The air vibrated with an unseen force, reality itself straining as the ritual neared completion.
Arthur didn't hesitate.
His sword was already moving—an arc of divine light cutting through the darkness.
His blade met flesh, slicing through the lead magus in a single stroke.
The chanting stopped.
The other magi barely had time to scream before the ritual collapsed in on itself.
A soundless explosion of energy rippled through the tent, snuffing out the dark presence before it could fully form. Whatever had been clawing its way into the world was gone.
Arthur exhaled, steadying himself.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, mixing with the fading traces of whatever unnatural presence had been conjured.
And yet, Arthur remained still.
His gaze was fixed on the body at his feet—the lifeless husk of the magus who had nearly brought something terrible into the world. The feeling still lingered in his bones, a sense of unease he couldn't shake.
He had fought wars. He had slain men and beasts alike. But that? That had been different.
Faye shifted uncomfortably, crossing her arms as she looked between Arthur and the corpses littering the tent. She wouldn't admit it—not out loud, not in front of him—but she had felt it too.
That same chill crawling up her spine.
That same unspoken warning in her very soul.
Instead, she settled for a simple question. "What was that?"
Arthur exhaled slowly, as if only now remembering to breathe.
"I don't know."
His words were even, but there was something uncharacteristically uncertain in them.
Tier, standing a short distance away, observed him closely. Unlike Faye, she wasn't as concerned with what they had just fought, but rather how Arthur had reacted to it.
"You hesitated."
Arthur finally looked up at her.
She didn't say it as an accusation, merely an observation. But to someone like Arthur Pendragon, a knight who had always met every battle with unwavering conviction, those words held weight.
Arthur opened his mouth, but then paused. He wasn't sure how to answer.
Tier didn't press, but her piercing gaze remained steady. "Are you alright?"
Arthur hesitated again, then nodded—though it was a small, almost absent-minded motion.
Ulquiorra, who had been silent up until now, turned toward the entrance of the tent. His unreadable green eyes flickered toward the distant battlefield. "We should check how many of our forces are still alive."
Arthur didn't respond immediately, but his posture shifted slightly. The battle was over, but his duty wasn't.
Ulquiorra continued, "And you will likely have to give a speech—to those who have lost the ones they cared for."
Arthur exhaled sharply, straightening his back. There was no hesitation in him now. "Once you find out how many casualties we suffered, inform me. Then I will address them."
Ulquiorra gave a slight nod before silently departing.
For a brief moment, only Arthur, Tier, and Faye remained in the dimly lit tent.
Faye glanced toward the fallen magus once more before finally stepping beside Arthur. She kept her voice quieter this time, the usual sharpness in her tone softened.
"…You're thinking about what would have happened if you were even a second too late."
Arthur didn't reply, but he didn't need to.
Faye sighed. "Don't dwell on it too much, Arthur. Whatever that was, it failed. You stopped it."
Arthur looked down at Excalibur Reid, the golden blade still gleaming as if untouched by the battle.
"…For now."