Artoria gritted her teeth as another contraction wracked her body, her breath hitching as pain burned through her. She had endured countless battles, fought through wounds that would have felled lesser warriors, but this… this was unlike anything she had ever faced.
Arthur sat beside her, his hand firmly wrapped around hers, offering silent strength. His grip was strong, but not unyielding, grounding her. He had faced death itself, fought against gods, yet he had never felt so utterly helpless as he did now, watching her struggle through this.
Arthur sat beside her, his fingers entwined with hers, his grip firm but gentle. He had never seen her like this before—vulnerable, in pain, yet entirely unyielding. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead, her golden hair clinging to her face, yet her emerald eyes, sharp as ever, did not waver.
Morgan stood at the foot of the bed, sleeves rolled up, hands steady as she prepared for what was to come. There was something unreadable in her expression, though Arthur knew her well enough to see the unspoken weight behind her usual smirk.
"Trust me, Little Sister," Morgan had said before this began. "If I step out of line, Vivian will take over."
It had been a weak attempt at reassurance, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. But Artoria had trusted her—just as she always had, despite everything.
Merlin lingered in the background, arms crossed, watching Morgan like a hawk. He did not intervene. He did not offer his usual cryptic words or smug amusement. He was simply there, silent and observing. It was unsettling in its own way.
And then, Artoria's breath hitched.
A sharp, guttural sound escaped her lips, and Arthur felt her grip tighten around his hand—stronger than any sword he had ever wielded. He gritted his teeth but did not pull away.
"Breathe, Artoria," Morgan instructed, voice surprisingly soft, surprisingly present.
Arthur stole a glance at her and saw it—the flicker of genuine focus, of something deeper than mere obligation. Whatever else she might have felt for Artoria, whatever complicated, twisted emotions lay buried between them—at this moment, she was here.
Another contraction wracked Artoria's body, and Arthur could only watch, helpless. She did not scream. She did not beg for the pain to stop. Even now, she endured. That was who she was. That was who she had always been.
But he saw the exhaustion in her eyes.
"Artoria…" Arthur murmured, leaning closer, pressing his forehead against hers. "You're doing well. I'm here."
She let out a shaky breath, and for just a second, she leaned into his touch, drawing strength from him. Then she pulled away, determination settling back into her features.
"It's time." Morgan's voice broke the moment.
A divine presence filled the room, thick as mist, something ancient and unspoken stirring in the air. Even Merlin's expression shifted—something like recognition, or perhaps reverence.
Arthur barely had time to process before a final, strangled breath left Artoria's lips—one final push—
And then, silence.
A pause.
A single, sharp cry split the air.
And in that moment, the world changed.
Morgan held the child in her arms, and for the first time in Arthur's memory, she looked stunned. Her cold blue eyes, so often filled with amusement or malice, were wide in something akin to awe. The infant in her arms radiated a soft golden glow, an aura that pulsed in time with something beyond human comprehension.
"A goddess…" Morgan murmured.
Arthur barely heard her.
His eyes were locked on Artoria, whose chest rose and fell with labored breaths, her face pale but her eyes fixed on the newborn in Morgan's arms.
Morgan carefully moved toward Artoria, holding the child out to her.
Artoria, despite her exhaustion, reached out and cradled the baby against her chest. The golden light flickered, settling into something gentler, warmer.
"She's beautiful," Arthur whispered, unable to tear his eyes away.
The infant's features were delicate yet striking, a mix of both parents—golden hair that shimmered like firelight, skin smooth like polished marble, and eyes—
Her eyes slowly blinked open, and Arthur felt his breath hitch.
Her irises were a molten gold, shifting with hints of green, like the very essence of divine royalty itself.
Artoria stared at her, something unreadable in her gaze. Then, after a long moment, she spoke.
"Mordred."
The name settled over them like a prophecy.
The child, as if understanding, let out a small sound—not quite a cry, but a noise of recognition.
Arthur felt something shift in his chest, something heavy yet grounding.
Morgan tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile creeping onto her lips. "Mordred…" she echoed. "Fitting."
Merlin exhaled, shaking his head with something between amusement and reverence. "The birth of a goddess indeed."
Artoria looked down at her daughter, her fingers brushing against the child's impossibly soft cheek.
"I see you," she murmured. "And I will raise you, my daughter."
Arthur tightened his grip on Artoria's shoulder, silent but steady beside her.
—
Months before.
The people of Britain gathered in the great courtyard of Camelot, summoned by their king's decree. From the highest lords to the lowliest commoners, they came in thousands, their voices filling the air with speculation.
This was not the usual courtly announcement. There had been no whispers of war, no rumors of betrayal. And yet, the urgency in the summons had been undeniable.
Then, as the sun stood high in the sky, King Artoria Pendragon stepped forward.
She stood clad in royal armor, as always—the weight of kingship upon her shoulders. Yet, there was something different today.
A subtle but undeniable glow radiated from her, something beyond mere regality. Her posture was straight, unyielding, but there was a quiet vulnerability beneath it.
And then they saw it.
A sharp inhale rippled through the crowd.
The king—their king—bore the unmistakable curve of pregnancy beneath her armor.
A sudden hush fell upon all of Camelot.
The sight alone defied every belief they had held. For years, they had followed a king, a ruler said to be beyond mortal weakness, an ideal given form. But now, before them stood not a man, nor an untouchable legend, but a woman.
A truth hidden for over a decade.
The silence stretched long, thick with tension. Then, one voice broke it.
"Impossible…"
A noble's murmur, barely above a whisper, yet loud enough to spread.
Then, another.
"The king… a woman?"
Artoria's emerald gaze swept over them, unwavering.
Then, in a voice like steel meeting stone, she spoke:
"I am Artoria Pendragon. The ruler of Britain. The sword and shield that has stood between you and ruin."
Her voice rang through the courtyard, calm yet unshakable.
"And yes, I am a woman."
Shock coursed through the assembled crowd. The very foundations of their beliefs trembled beneath them.
Artoria did not flinch.
"For over a decade, I have led you in battle. I have defended our lands, brought victory where others saw only defeat. Not as a man. Not as a woman. But as your king."
Her words held weight, yet the tension did not fade. There were too many questions.
Too much disbelief.
Until a knight—one of her own—stepped forward.
"Then…" His voice was careful, uncertain. "What of the child?"
Artoria met his gaze, then, without hesitation, turned to the man beside her.
Arthur, King of Dumnonia, stepped forward.
His presence was a stark contrast to hers—where she was light, he was shadow; where she was honed steel, he was the steady ground beneath it.
Without ceremony, without flourish, Artoria spoke:
"This child is ours."
A ripple of shocked gasps surged through the square.
Arthur did not look away from the people. His expression was calm, composed, but the way his hand briefly brushed against Artoria's—subtle but certain—spoke louder than words.
Then, finally, the question that truly mattered:
"What does this mean for the kingdom?"
Artoria stepped forward once more.
"It means that Britain will not remain divided."
She placed a hand over her stomach, her voice soft yet unyielding.
"This child is the heir to a future where Dumnonia and Camelot stand as one."
The silence that followed was different from before.
Not disbelief.
Not fear.
But the weight of change.
From the balcony, Morgan le Fay watched with her arms crossed, a small smirk curving her lips.
Beside her, Merlin sighed, rubbing his temple.
"Well," he muttered, "that was certainly dramatic."
Morgan chuckled.
"Oh, don't be dull, Merlin. This is history in the making."
Her gaze flickered toward her sister—the woman she had once despised, and yet, now, the one she would see this through to the end with.
—--
The sun hung high over Elysium's gardens, spilling golden light over the trimmed hedges and flowerbeds. Laughter echoed through the open space—bright, unrestrained, full of life.
A blur of red and silver dashed across the soft grass.
Mordred.
The young child tore through the garden paths, her ash-blonde hair wild from running, her green eyes shining with exhilaration. She was dressed in simple training clothes, but the way she moved—fast, instinctual, fierce—already carried the echoes of a warrior.
And yet, she wasn't alone.
"Mordred, slow down—!"
A boy with golden-blond hair and piercing blue eyes stumbled after her, panting heavily. Unlike Mordred, he was far more refined in posture, but exhaustion lined his face.
He collapsed onto the grass with an unceremonious thud, arms spread out as he tried to catch his breath.
Mordred turned with a grin, hands on her hips.
"See, Jugram? You give up too easily!"
"It's not—" Jugram sucked in a deep breath, eyes shutting for a moment. "It's not giving up. I just don't see the point in running around like a headless chicken."
Mordred scoffed.
"That's because you're boring."
Jugram only sighed, rolling onto his back and staring up at the sky, clearly done with whatever game Mordred had forced him into.
And then—a new presence.
Mordred's ears twitched at the sound of a chair creaking slightly nearby. Someone was watching.
She turned sharply, and her expression lit up.
"Momma Morgan!"
Without hesitation, she sprinted toward the woman sitting in a shaded corner of the garden. Her arms wrapped around Morgan's legs, hugging them tightly.
Morgan le Fay—regal, poised, and eternally unreadable—smirked down at the child.
"What, I can't watch you two play now?" she mused, crossing one leg over the other. Her lilac eyes gleamed with amusement, but her tone carried that same ever-present mystery—half-teasing, half-something else entirely.
Mordred leaned back, still clinging to her.
"You never watch! You always disappear!"
Morgan chuckled, reaching down to ruffle the young girl's unruly hair.
"Oh? And here I thought you enjoyed your 'freedom.'"
Mordred pouted, but before she could retort, Jugram finally dragged himself closer—slowly, as if every muscle in his body protested.
He stopped just in front of Morgan and Mordred, half-kneeling, still catching his breath.
Mordred glanced at him and groaned dramatically.
"Come on, Jugram! Stop being such a coward."
Jugram flinched, sitting up a little straighter.
"I-I'm not scared!"
Morgan raised an eyebrow, watching the boy with quiet intrigue.
"Then why do you hesitate?"
Jugram fidgeted slightly under her gaze before muttering, "Mordred's just… really, really fast." He exhaled, dropping onto his back again with a sigh. "It's exhausting."
Mordred crossed her arms, unimpressed.
"That's just an excuse! You just want to lay around and be lazy after practice."
Jugram's eyes shut, as if he was already halfway to sleep.
"And what's so wrong with that?"
Morgan—who had been silently observing the exchange—chuckled softly.
Mordred turned to her sharply.
"Why are you laughing?"
Morgan smirked.
"Because," she said, voice smooth as silk, "it's amusing to see a lion cub try to make a sleeping dragon run with her."
Mordred huffed, not entirely sure whether she liked that analogy or not.
But Morgan's hand remained in her hair—gentle, steady, lingering.
Her fingers twitched, eager for movement, but something bothered her more than her restless energy today.
"Where is Reinhardt and Cetrion?" Mordred asked, voice laced with frustration.
Morgan, who had been sitting on the stone bench nearby, glanced up lazily, her lilac eyes glinting with a teasing light.
"Oh, them? I wouldn't doubt they're training somewhere—or off playing with nature. You know how they are," Morgan replied with a faint smirk, clearly unconcerned.
Mordred's frown deepened, though it was difficult to ignore the slight pang of unease in her chest.
"Yeah, ever since Reinhardt found that girl with the pointy ears in the forest, I feel like he's been avoiding me," Mordred muttered, pushing away from the pillar and pacing in small circles.
Jugram, who had been standing silently beside them, raised an eyebrow at Mordred's words, though he kept his thoughts to himself. His blue eyes flicked over to Morgan, who didn't seem remotely surprised by Mordred's statement.
"Like who ignores their own big sister?" Mordred continued, more to herself than to anyone in particular, but her voice held an edge of annoyance. She stopped in her tracks, looking toward the horizon. "What's so special about that girl, anyway?"
Jugram's gaze remained steady. He said nothing, but there was something in his expression that Mordred didn't miss. He was quiet—too quiet, as though he had already made up his mind about something, but wasn't willing to share it.
Morgan tilted her head slightly, studying Mordred with an amused look. "You know, little cub, your brother is growing up. Perhaps it's time to let him spread his wings."
The teasing tone in Morgan's voice struck Mordred harder than she cared to admit. Her frown turned into a scowl.
"Spread his wings? He's just avoiding me," Mordred snapped, taking a few steps forward, her voice rising with frustration. "I've been by his side since the beginning, and now that there's some strange girl with pointy ears, suddenly, I'm not needed?"
She shook her head, her heart pounding in her chest. Her eyes flicked back to Jugram, who had yet to say a word.
"Mordred…" Jugram finally spoke, his tone soft but steady. He watched her closely. "I don't think it's about you not being needed. Maybe it's more about him finding something he's passionate about. Sometimes people grow distant not because of what others do, but because they start seeing the world differently."
Mordred stopped mid-step, her face flushing slightly as the weight of his words sank in. For a brief moment, she stood still, unsure of what to make of it.
"But…" Mordred began, her voice cracking slightly, though she quickly cleared her throat to regain her composure. "I don't know… it just feels like I'm losing him. Like he's growing away from me, and I can't keep up."
Morgan watched her with a quiet, almost melancholic look in her eyes. She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice quieter now, tinged with a hint of something deeper.
"Growth isn't always easy, little cub. Sometimes it means you have to step aside for someone else to find their path. Reinhardt will always care for you." She let the words linger in the air before continuing, more softly, "But it's okay to let him grow. And it's okay for you to grow as well."
Mordred's lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn't sure how to respond to that. The idea of stepping aside, of letting Reinhardt find his own path—it felt foreign, but maybe it was the right thing.
"I'm still his sister," Mordred muttered, her voice quieter now. "Even if he has other people in his life."
Morgan smiled gently, though there was something sad about it. "Yes, you are. And that will never change, no matter what happens with Reinhardt or anyone else."
Jugram, who had been watching the exchange quietly, offered a soft chuckle. "You know, Mordred, maybe you're just jealous."
Mordred glanced at him, her eyes narrowing.
"Jealous?" she repeated, incredulous. "Of what, exactly?"
Jugram didn't flinch under her gaze, instead giving her a knowing look. "Of the attention Reinhardt is giving to someone else. You're not just upset about him spending time with her. You're upset because he's paying attention to something other than you for once."
Mordred opened her mouth to retort but stopped. For a brief moment, she was speechless. Jugram's words struck deeper than she'd expected.
Morgan, always the one to offer cryptic wisdom, added, "Jealousy is a natural part of affection, little cub. Just be careful not to let it turn into something more."
Mordred clenched her fists. She didn't want to admit it, but there was a part of her—something small and vulnerable—that felt threatened by the new presence in Reinhardt's life.
"I guess I'll just have to deal with it," Mordred finally said, her voice quieter now. She shifted uncomfortably. "I won't stop him from growing. But I won't sit idly by while someone else gets in the way of our bond."
Morgan's smile was subtle, but there was something soft about it now. "That's the spirit, little cub."
Jugram, who had been quietly observing the conversation, finally stood and gave Mordred a nod. "Maybe it's not about getting in the way. Maybe it's about finding your own path while still holding on to the ones you care about."
Mordred looked at Jugram, her annoyance fading slowly, replaced by something else—a reluctant understanding.
"Yeah, maybe…"