(Once more a chapter was relased hours before when I wanted to drop it, clearly you have to do everything yourself >w< )
Emily Carter adjusted her documents, a serious look on her face. "Breaking news tonight: Tony Stark, billionaire inventor and CEO of Stark Industries, and renowned playboy, has reportedly gone missing."
"Details are scarce, but we know that Stark was in the Middle East for a covert weapons demonstration for the military. We have confirmation that Stark did not return as scheduled, and an investigation is currently underway."
She glanced at the graphic displayed on the screen. "Reports indicate that Stark was showcasing a new weapons system in the area. His disappearance has raised concerns about a possible coordinated attack from a well-organized insurgent group."
Emily Carter leaned forward slightly, her tone steady yet somber. "Although military officials have withheld information, insiders suggest that this is being treated as a high-priority kidnapping. The attackers might have targeted Stark to gain access to classified weaponry."
She pointed toward the gathering crowd displayed on the live feed. "Outside Stark Tower in New York, fans and employees have assembled, holding signs and candles, hoping for Stark's safe return. Stark Industries has yet to provide a detailed statement."
"However," Emily continued, glancing back at her notes, "Pepper Potts, Stark's personal assistant, issued a brief message earlier today: 'We are deeply concerned about Tony's safety and are cooperating fully with authorities. Our priority is his safe return.'"
"Yet, questions remain. How did the attackers learn about the secret weapons demonstration, and how did they breach the convoy? Was the weapon taken as well?"
Emily's tone hardened as she spoke directly to the camera. "Are terrorists now in possession of state-of-the-art Stark weaponry? And are we now at risk from weapons designed to protect us?"
Emily Carter leaned back slightly, her expression resolute as she addressed the audience. "These pressing questions weigh heavily on everyone's mind tonight. The implications of Stark's disappearance—and the potential theft of his technology—are immense."
Emily's expression darkened further as she continued. "Stark's disappearance follows just three weeks after the world was shocked by the return of Camelot. The reappearance of King Arthur and his knights has already left nations scrambling to respond."
"Now, with Stark missing and the threat of advanced weapons falling into enemy hands, the world teeters on the edge of chaos. Ancient legends and modern crises are converging in unprecedented ways."
She leaned closer to the camera, her voice steady. "In a world already destabilized by the return of Camelot, Stark's kidnapping amplifies the uncertainty. What lies ahead is anyone's guess."
-----
The world has once again been thrown into a media-driven frenzy due to Tony Stark's disappearance. While Camelot had the public hanging on their every word, every media outlet realized they had little new information to share.
They could only bring in so many experts who would ask the same questions; without new developments, they risked damaging their credibility in the long run.
They knew they needed a fresh angle, but the government was withholding the bigger story, leaving them hungry for something substantial.
Now, the news of the world's richest and most famous individual possibly being kidnapped or murdered was a headline worth pursuing.
Thus, they quickly shifted focus from Camelot to Stark's predicament.
That doesn't mean the public lost interest in Camelot; it simply meant the media could finally offer varied discussions instead of repeating the same narratives.
The story of Stark's crisis reached nearly everywhere, all but the white city of Camelot.
Without TVs, phones, electronic devices, or newspapers, the people within remained oblivious to the events unfolding outside.
King Arthuria Pendragon, the Goddess of the End, sat upon her throne, overseeing her Knights as they trained, eager to leave yet prohibited from doing so.
Each day, a group of outsiders entered the city, and under the watchful eye of a knight, they explored it.
"Troublesome," I muttered as another group exited the city. Day after day, it remained the same; for weeks, no changes had occurred.
I may be a divine King, immortal and ageless, with all the time in the world; a few weeks meant little to me or my knights.
Yet, I was clearly here for a purpose, and I couldn't afford to wait. The people—my people—needed me to save them.
With a sigh, I rose from my throne and headed to my chambers. Understanding that I needed to take action didn't clarify how I should proceed. I knew I needed information, but how to obtain it?
That would have to be a problem for tomorrow. As I settled into bed more out of habit than necessity, my knights gradually turned in for the night, though they wouldn't find much rest.
Mordred had trained all day, sparring with the other knights—hitting one another was enjoyable, and even now, he walked with a smile, hands behind his head, as if he owned the place. One day, he would.
He rounded a corner and saw Sir Tristan, the Knight of Sorrow, leaning against the wall, gazing out at the moonlit city.
"Evening, Tristan," called Mordred casually. "Still brooding, or just appreciating the view?"
Tristan glanced over, his expression inscrutable as always. "A bit of both, I guess," he replied, his voice low and burdened with unspoken thoughts. "The city may be serene, but my mind seldom is."
Mordred chuckled, resting against the opposite wall. "You should ponder less and spar more; it works wonders for clearing the mind."
Tristan turned to face him, arms crossed. "And what would be the purpose of our sparring, Mordred? To pass the time? To distract ourselves from our inaction since Camelot's return?"
Mordred's grin faltered briefly before returning, albeit smaller. "What else can we do? My father confines us here like artifacts in a museum. Don't tell me you're content with this."
Tristan's expression darkened, and he turned back to the window. "Content? No. But I trust the king; he wouldn't keep us here without a reason."
Mordred scoffed. "Reason or not, we're knights, Tristan. Warriors. It's maddening to sit idle while the world continues outside. We should confront that accursed black knight instead of entertaining tourists."
Tristan's jaw tightened at Mordred's words, but his voice stayed calm, heavy with unspoken frustration. "I agree the black knight must be dealt with, but we must trust the king."
Mordred crossed his arms with a sigh. "Trust the king; that's all we seem to do. Meanwhile, the world forgets what Camelot represents. How long must we wait here for a sign?"
Tristan maintained his gaze on the moonlit city. "We don't wait for a sign, Mordred. We wait for the right moment. Rushing into the unknown won't fix anything. The Black Knight will come in due time."
Mordred growled in frustration, then exhaled heavily. "I know you're right. I just want to prove myself, you see?"
Tristan turned to him, his expression softening slightly. "I understand, Mordred. You've always wanted to demonstrate your abilities to the King. But proving yourself isn't about rushing into battle."
Mordred shrugged, arms still crossed. "It's difficult to feel like a knight when we merely entertain gawking outsiders. We're meant to be legends, not curators of a museum."
Tristan chuckled quietly, a flicker of a smile breaking through his usual solemn demeanor. "Patience, Mordred. Legends aren't created overnight. When the moment arrives, you'll have your opportunity to prove yourself. Just remember, a knight is defined not by glory but by purpose."
Mordred narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Purpose? If my purpose is to protect Camelot, I'll be prepared. When that black knight appears, I'll show him what I'm capable of."
Tristan placed a hand on Mordred's shoulder, his voice calm and reassuring. "You will, Mordred. But until then, place your faith in the king and yourself. Your moment will come."
Mordred nodded, the fire in his eyes slightly dimming but still burning strong. "I hope you're right, Tristan. I genuinely do."
As the two knights parted ways, the stillness of the night enveloped Camelot's halls once more. Mordred walked toward his chambers, his mind racing with thoughts of upcoming battles, while Tristan remained by the window, gazing at the city below, a sense of unease settling within him.
Mordred considered taking a bath but ultimately decided against it; it was too late for his father to be around, and honestly, it wasn't enjoyable to do alone.
"I'll save it for next time," he muttered as he entered his room, which was cluttered and messy, debris strewn across the floor. A pile of plates and cups, bones stripped of meat—it was a disaster, but Mordred couldn't bring himself to clean it, so he kicked everything aside on his way to the bed and the armor stand nearby.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he glanced at the mess surrounding him. It didn't disturb him; in fact, it felt oddly comforting, chaos reflecting the storm in his mind. "Tristan and his patience," he grumbled. "The Black Knight's out there, likely mocking us while we languish in this gilded cage."
Mordred reclined, his head against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The weight of his armor, both physical and metaphorical, pressed down on him even as he sat in his undershirt. "I'll prove myself," he whispered. "I'll show them all. Father, Tristan, the Black Knight... the world."
As his eyes began to close, visions of battles to come and victories to grasp filled his mind. For now, the heir of Camelot would rest, but the fire within him burned brightly, anticipating the moment it would be set free.
"You really ought to clean up at some point."
The unexpected comment jolted him awake. Standing at the now-open door was his father, Arthuria Pendragon.
Mordred shot upright, instinctively losing the casual defiance he had just embodied. "Father," he managed, clearing his throat and straightening his shirt. "I didn't expect you."
Arthuria entered, her keen gaze surveying the chaos. Plates, bones, discarded armor littered the room—a sight that would make any knight wince. "Clearly," she stated dryly, shutting the door behind her. "You've made yourself... comfortable."
Mordred rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile forming. "It's not that bad. Just... lived in."
Arthuria raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Lived in? Mordred, this isn't a tavern. You're a knight of Camelot, heir to its legacy. Your environment reflects on you, whether you acknowledge it or not."
Mordred gestured vaguely at the mess. "It's just a room. Doesn't define who I am."
His father sighed, recognizing the futility of further discussion. Mordred was resolute in his ways and unlikely to change anytime soon.
"Fine, we can discuss that later. For now, let's focus on why I came." Without saying more, she leaned forward and tapped her finger against Mordred's forehead.
(end of chapter)
Why is she there? and Mordred really should clean his room.