Arthur woke with a start.
His breath was uneven, his body tense as if he had awoken from a battle rather than a night of uneasy sleep. The chill of the morning air clung to his skin, but it was nothing compared to the cold settling in his chest.
His eyes swept over the camp. It was quiet—only the soft rustling of trees and the distant murmurs of knights and retainers stirring for the day. But she was gone.
Morgan was gone.
He sat up slowly, the weight of the night before pressing against his skull like a phantom ache. His gaze flickered to the empty space beside him, the faint impression of where she had been, as if that alone would offer answers. But there were none. Only silence.
Arthur exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his tousled hair before pulling on his clothes with methodical movements. His fingers trembled slightly—not from the cold, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper, something clawing at the edges of his mind.
Why had he let that happen?
Why had he allowed her to do as she wished?
Was it pity for Vivian? Some misplaced guilt? A weakness within him that he had never acknowledged until now?
He shook his head, trying to banish the questions, but they only burrowed deeper.
Arthur stepped out of the tent, his shoulders rigid as he walked through the camp. People were beginning their morning routines—knights sharpening their blades, servants tending to fires, squires rushing about. Life moved on, unaffected, indifferent.
And yet, Arthur felt as if he were standing outside of it all. As if he were drowning in something unseen, unheard, unnoticed by anyone but himself.
His feet carried him away, past the bustle of the camp, past the trees and into the quiet solitude of the woods. He didn't know where he was going. He only knew that he needed to move.
When he finally stopped, he found himself before a lake.
The surface was still, undisturbed, reflecting the sky above with a clarity that mocked him.
Arthur sank to his knees, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him with unbearable force.
He had spent his life upholding his duty. Forsaking what he was taught for Artoria, for her ideals. He had abandoned his honor, his original path—all for her.
And now, he had betrayed her.
Not by force. Not by deception.
But by choice.
His choice.
His reflection stared back at him from the water's surface, and for the first time, he could not bear to look at himself. He saw only his failure, only the hollow remnants of the man he thought he was.
When he tried to imagine Artoria, he could see it—the look of betrayal, the silent, cutting hatred in her eyes.
The thought shattered him.
Arthur's hands clenched into fists against his knees, his breathing uneven.
"I'm sorry, Artoria," he whispered.
The words were barely audible, but they carried the weight of his soul.
And then, for the first time in his life, Arthur Pendragon—King, knight, savior, and sinner—broke.
Tears fell, silent and unrelenting, as pure, unfiltered self-hatred consumed him whole.
—
Artoria stood before the gathered nobles, her expression calm yet unyielding. The great hall was filled with Britain's most powerful lords and financiers, those who had long shaped the kingdom's fate from the shadows with their wealth and influence. Murmurs of curiosity and skepticism rippled through the chamber, but none dared voice their thoughts aloud—yet.
She took a slow breath. This moment would change everything.
"I have gathered you here," she began, her voice steady as steel, "because it is time for the truth to be known."
The nobles exchanged wary glances. Some stood with their arms crossed, others whispered among themselves, the faintest hints of unease settling over the assembly.
"Truth?" one of the older lords scoffed. "What truth could warrant such secrecy? We have been loyal to you, King Arthur. We have fought and bled for you. If there is something we must know, then speak plainly."
Artoria's fingers curled at her sides, but her expression remained unreadable. She had known this moment would come. She had ruled as their king, led them into battle, carried the weight of Britain upon her shoulders—but never had she shown them who she truly was.
She stepped forward, the illusion shattering.
A single movement, yet it carried the weight of years. As she pulled back the mantle, the form-fitting fabric beneath left no doubt. The illusion that had shielded her was gone. She stood before them not as the king they had imagined, but as the woman she had always been.
Silence crushed the room.
A few gasped. Some widened their eyes in shock, as if unable to reconcile the truth before them. Others recoiled, their minds scrambling for an explanation, a denial.
Then came the outrage.
"This—this is treason!" one noble erupted, stepping forward, his face red with fury. "A deception of the highest order! A woman has sat upon the throne all this time, leading our armies, giving us orders—!"
"Have we been ruled by a lie?" another demanded, his voice dripping with disbelief.
A cacophony of voices followed, nobles speaking over one another, their words tinged with anger, fear, and betrayal. It was as she had expected. Some felt their pride wounded, others feared the consequences of the truth. After all, their loyalty had not been given to a queen, but to the King of Knights.
And yet, Artoria did not flinch.
She stood firm amidst their chaos, her eyes unwavering. When she spoke again, her voice carried not just authority, but the force of something greater—something divine.
"I have led you to victory," she declared, and the hall quivered under the weight of her words. "I have ruled with justice. I have protected this land, sacrificed for it, bled for it. Have I not fulfilled the duty of a king?"
The nobles faltered. Some looked away, shame creeping into their expressions.
"Do not mistake my form for weakness," she continued. "You speak of deception—yet was it not by this very deception that Britain has endured? That you have followed me without question?"
Her hand rose, and in an instant, the atmosphere shifted.
A blinding golden radiance erupted from her form, filling the hall with an overwhelming presence. It was not just light—it was divinity itself, the unmistakable aura of a being touched by the gods, a goddess. The nobles staggered, some shielding their eyes, others falling to their knees, trembling under the sheer force of her existence.
"I am chosen by the will of the world itself," Artoria declared, her voice carrying through the chamber like a divine edict. "If you still doubt my right to rule, then challenge me. Stand before me, deny the blessings of the Holy Sword, and claim Britain for yourselves."
None spoke. None moved.
Faced with the undeniable proof of her authority, their defiance crumbled. Some nobles bowed their heads in reverence, others in silent acceptance. Even those who had shouted the loudest moments ago dared not meet her gaze.
Artoria let the light fade, the air in the room heavy with what had just transpired. The silence was no longer one of anger but of understanding—of awe.
"This kingdom," she said softly now, "is greater than any one person. Greater than you, greater than me. I will continue to be its sword and shield, as I have always been. Whether you accept me or not, Britain will endure."
She turned, her mantle falling back into place, and walked past them with measured steps.
She did not need their permission.
She never had.
Artoria's vision suddenly swam. For a brief, disorienting moment, she felt as if she had been pulled from the present, her consciousness slipping somewhere beyond her own will. The world around her blurred—stone walls, torchlight, the faint hum of conversations in the distance—all of it faded into a silent void.
Then, as swiftly as it vanished, another scene unfolded before her.
Arthur was kneeling. His broad shoulders were hunched, his head bowed, as if the weight of the world pressed down upon him. Before him stretched a lake, its surface dark and still, mirroring his broken expression. Moonlight traced the contours of his face, illuminating eyes brimming with anguish.
He was crying.
Artoria's breath caught.
Arthur Pendragon did not cry.
Not when the battlefield swallowed their comrades whole. Not when betrayal sank its claws into Camelot. Not when the burden of kingship weighed upon him more than any mortal man could bear.
Yet here he was, kneeling before his own reflection, whispering words that sent a strange, hollow ache through her chest.
"I'm sorry, Artoria."
His voice cracked, raw with sorrow, thick with self-loathing.
Artoria's fingers twitched. She wanted to reach for him, to steady him, to demand why he was like this—what had broken him so completely? But before she could move, the vision twisted again.
A different scene.
Arthur knelt once more, but this time, before something—no, someone—entirely different.
A woman stood above him.
She was ethereal in beauty, yet utterly inhuman. Hair as pale as untouched snow cascaded down her back, her golden eyes gleaming with an eerie, knowing light. She did not simply look at Arthur—she saw him, as though she were peering straight through his soul.
A smirk touched her lips.
"The greatest of humanity has finally come to me," she murmured, her voice rich with amusement, with satisfaction, as though she had awaited this moment for a long, long time.
Artoria's heart pounded.
Who was she?
Why was Arthur kneeling before her?
Before she could make sense of it, a sudden force pulled her back—out of the vision, out of the strange, shifting space where time itself felt distorted.
She gasped.
The hall came rushing back into focus—warmth, light, the steady murmur of knights moving about. A hand gripped her arm, firm but careful.
She turned sharply, her gaze locking onto Gawain's.
He was watching her, concern etched across his face.
"Are you alright, Your Majesty?"
For a moment, Artoria simply stared at him, disoriented. The weight of what she had just seen lingered like an afterimage burned into her mind. Arthur—his sorrow, his broken voice, that woman with golden eyes—what did it all mean?
She forced herself to steady her breath, pushing away the lingering unease curling in her chest.
"Oh… yes…" she murmured, her voice softer than she intended.
Gawain didn't look convinced.
But he did not press further.
As he released his grip, Artoria let out a slow exhale, forcing herself to refocus.
Something had changed.
And whatever it was, it had shaken Arthur to his core
—-
Apacci crossed her arms, her brow furrowed in frustration. "Is something wrong with Arthur?" she asked, breaking the uneasy silence that had settled over the room.
It had been weeks since his behavior started shifting, and instead of improving, it had only gotten worse. The tension in his movements, the hollow look in his eyes—it was as if something vital within him had withered.
The others in the room—Tier, Ulquiorra, Sung-Sun, and Mila Rose—exchanged glances, each of them clearly having noticed the same thing.
Tier frowned, her golden eyes dark with concern. "I agree. He's become more reckless—his swordsmanship is unrecognizable compared to before. Once, his style was like that of a falcon, or perhaps even a dragon. Every strike was precise, swift, and calculated—like a falcon diving for its prey. Unpredictable. Unstoppable." She hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "But now… now he fights like a praying mantis. His movements are aggressive, relentless. He no longer values defense—no parrying, no dodging. Only delivering fatal strikes. He presses forward as if retreating is no longer an option to him."
"I've noticed it too," Ulquiorra said, his voice as calm and detached as ever, yet there was a faint, almost imperceptible trace of curiosity in his tone. "The fire that once burned in his soul—something that defined him—is gone. Whatever happened to him has altered him fundamentally."
Mila Rose scoffed, crossing her arms. "I don't like it. It's not just his swordplay—it's the way he looks at things, the way he pushes forward without stopping to think. The way he's pushing us. If this keeps up, he's going to drive himself and everyone else into the ground."
In the back of the room, Faye remained quiet, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared at the others. Her expression was unreadable, but her silence spoke volumes. She knew something was wrong.
"Well, we need to do something about it," Apacci said, her voice sharp. "We can't have our leader die on us. And the way he's pushing the men—it's bad. They're exhausted, and if this keeps up, someone's going to get killed because they can't keep up with his damn pace."
Tier nodded. "We need to confront him before it's too late."
There was a brief pause before Sung-Sun, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. "The question is, will he even listen?"
"I don't know," Ulquiorra finally said, his voice as devoid of emotion as ever. "But that doesn't matter. He doesn't have time to wallow. Our biggest battle is coming, and if he leads us into it like this, we will all die."
Tier inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the truth in his words. "Then I will speak with him."
The others nodded, though there was hesitation in their eyes.
"Don't fall for his depraved ways and that handsomely deceitful face!" Apacci called out with a smirk, though there was a thread of genuine concern beneath her usual teasing.
Mila Rose let out a tired sigh and shot Apacci a glare. "Shut up, Apacci."
That was the last thing Tier heard as she turned on her heel and left the room.
The cool night air brushed against her skin as she made her way to Arthur's tent. The camp was quiet, save for the distant sound of clashing blades—soldiers still training, unwilling to let their guard down before the coming battle. Yet even among the disciplined warriors of their ranks, Arthur had been different. Untouchable.
Now, he was something else entirely.
Tier reached the entrance of his tent, hesitating for only a second before calling out, "Arthur?"
A long pause. Then, a voice replied from within—cold, detached, utterly void of anything resembling the man she once knew.
"You can come in."
Tier pushed the flap aside and stepped in. The tent was dimly lit, only a few lanterns casting flickering shadows along the canvas walls. Arthur stood in the center, fastening the straps of his armor with practiced efficiency. His movements were mechanical—precise, methodical. But there was no fire in them. No presence.
"Where are you goi—"
She barely finished the question before he cut her off.
"What do you want?"
His tone was clipped, distant. He didn't even look at her, his hands continuing to work on the clasps of his armor as if she wasn't there.
Tier narrowed her eyes slightly. There was something fundamentally wrong about the way he carried himself. Arthur had always been disciplined, always carried an air of control—but this wasn't control. This was hollow.
She stepped closer, folding her arms. "You've been reckless."
Arthur didn't react.
"You push forward without care for yourself or those under you," she continued, watching him carefully. "You fight like a man who has no intention of coming back."
Still, no response.
Tier exhaled, her patience wearing thin. "Look at me, Arthur."
Finally, he stopped. His hands stilled over his armor, and after a long moment, he turned his gaze toward her.
His eyes—once burning with unshakable determination—were empty.
Tier had seen many things in her life. She had seen warriors break. She had seen kings fall. She had even seen hollows who had lost every last shred of themselves to despair.
But Arthur was not a man who broke.
So then what had done this to him?
Her voice was quieter when she spoke again, but it carried more weight. "What happened to you?"
For the first time, Arthur hesitated.
Arthur regained his composure almost instantly, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference.
"That's none of your concern," he stated, his tone sharp, final. He moved past her with purpose, stepping toward the tent's exit without so much as a second glance. "Is that all?"
Tier reached out instinctively, her fingers curling around his wrist. The moment she made contact, he flinched—a barely perceptible reaction, but she felt it.
She tightened her grip. "Where are you going?" she asked again, her voice calm but firm.
Arthur didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned his head slightly, his golden hair catching the dim light of the lanterns. His face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a shadow, something restrained, something breaking.
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.
With a swift motion, he pulled his arm free. "Let go, Tier."
But she didn't.
"Not until you give me an answer."
Arthur exhaled sharply, but it wasn't frustration—it was exhaustion, a quiet kind that settled deep into the bones. "I have business outside the camp."
"You're heading straight for enemy territory, aren't you?"
Silence.
Her grip loosened slightly, but she didn't let go. "You're not even trying to be subtle. Are you planning to fight them alone?"
Arthur finally turned to face her, and for a moment, she almost wished he hadn't. There was no anger in his gaze. No fire. Just a vast, hollow void where something vital had been stripped away.
"It doesn't matter," he said, voice quieter now.
Tier felt something twist inside her.
"You can't keep throwing yourself into battle like this," she said, her voice holding the faintest edge of something softer. "You're their leader. They follow you, they trust you—and right now, you're leading them into uncertainty."
Arthur held her gaze, unreadable, then turned away. "Go back to camp, Tier."
Then he stepped out into the cold night air.
For a moment, Tier debated letting him go. Maybe it would be easier. Maybe he wanted to disappear into the battlefield. But that wasn't an option—not when he was spiraling further with every passing day.
So she followed.
Arthur didn't acknowledge her presence as she trailed behind him, his strides swift and purposeful. They moved past the rows of tents, past the last stationed guards who barely had time to recognize their king before he vanished into the night.
The landscape stretched out before them, vast and moonlit, the distant glow of enemy torches barely visible on the horizon. Arthur's pace never slowed.
"Arthur."
He didn't stop.
"Arthur, stop."
Still, nothing.
Tier clenched her jaw, quickening her steps until she was walking beside him. "Do you even have a plan? Or are you just going to walk into their camp and start cutting them down one by one?"
"If that's what it takes," he said simply.
She exhaled sharply, her frustration bleeding into her voice. "You're not invincible, Arthur. You fight like you have nothing to lose, but that isn't true. You have people—we—" She stopped herself, but the words had almost slipped.
Arthur's expression didn't change, but his steps faltered for half a second. "If you're going to lecture me, Tier, save your breath."
"Then talk to me."
Finally, finally, he stopped. The night air was still around them, the battlefield far ahead but looming nonetheless.
Arthur turned to her, and for the first time, something almost surfaced in his expression.
"You can't help me, Tier."
She met his gaze, unyielding. "I'm not trying to."
A pause. Then, softer—more real than anything he'd said all night:
"I just don't want to lose you."
Something flickered across his face. Barely there. But she saw it.
For a moment, the battlefield didn't exist. The war, the weight of leadership, the self-destruction—they all faded into the background.
Then, just as quickly, Arthur looked away. "Go back."
Tier didn't move.
Arthur didn't turn to look at her as he spoke, his voice cold, distant.
"Fine. Whatever. Just hurry up."
He continued walking, his armor shifting slightly with each step. The rhythmic sound of his boots pressing into the earth was steady, unwavering—like a man walking toward an inevitability rather than a fight.
Tier followed, her eyes narrowing as she studied his movements. He was too composed. Too still. This wasn't the Arthur who fought with purpose, who wielded his sword like an extension of his soul. No, this was someone resigned—someone with nothing left to lose.
That realization settled heavily in her chest, but she didn't let it slow her steps.
They moved deeper into the darkness, the distant enemy encampment coming into view—rows of torches casting flickering light against the canvas of war tents, armored figures pacing back and forth on patrol.
"Tell me something, Arthur," Tier finally spoke, her voice low yet firm. "What's your actual plan here?"
Arthur didn't slow, didn't hesitate. "To win."
Tier scoffed. "And dying in the process? Is that part of the strategy?"
Still, no hesitation. "If necessary."
That answer sent a flicker of irritation through her. She reached out, her fingers curling around his wrist again—not forcefully this time, but enough to make him pause. He didn't flinch like before, but he did stop, if only for a moment.
Tier stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her. "What happened to you?" she asked, searching his face.
Arthur's expression was unreadable, but in the flickering moonlight, she saw it—the exhaustion lining his features, the quiet grief buried beneath his carefully controlled exterior.
"Nothing that concerns you," he said.
"Liar."
A ghost of something—annoyance, maybe—flashed in his eyes before it faded into indifference. "Step aside, Tier."
She didn't move. "You think you're being noble, don't you? Throwing yourself into battles, pushing yourself harder than anyone else. Acting like your life is just another weapon to be used."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "I do what I must."
"You're being reckless," she countered. "This isn't just about you. Your men—your people—they need you. And right now, you're leading them straight into uncertainty. If you fall, what do you think happens next?"
Silence.
Tier studied him, watching the way his hands clenched at his sides. For all his outward calm, he wasn't unaffected. He just didn't want to show it.
"You don't have to do this alone," she said, softer this time.
Arthur exhaled sharply, but it wasn't frustration. It was something closer to surrender. Not to her, but to the weight he carried.
"And if I don't?" His voice was quiet. "What then?"
Tier met his gaze. "Then we figure it out together."
Something flickered in his eyes, something she couldn't quite name. He didn't answer immediately, but the fact that he hadn't brushed her off—that he was listening—meant something.
Finally, Arthur looked past her, toward the enemy encampment in the distance. "They won't wait forever," he murmured.
"Neither will I," Tier said. "So, tell me. What's the plan?"
Another pause. Then, at last—
"Stay close," he said, quieter this time.
It wasn't much, but it was a start.
And for now, that was enough.
(A/N: Arthur and Morgan did the deed. I didn't feel the need to dedicate a full chapter to that scene, but if you all really want it, I can write it. It would be a bit uncomfortable for me to do, but I'll push through. Other than that, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!)