Six months later, Art stood atop a rocky outcropping, watching as twenty youths sparred in the clearing below. The ragtag group had grown steadily since the fair, word spreading among disaffected young people in neighboring villages about the girl who pulled a sword from stone and spoke of uniting Britain against Saxon invaders.
Their training camp—for that was what it had become—occupied a defensible position in the hills, with the original hunter's cabin now expanded into several sturdy structures. Bobby had guided them in building these, sharing construction techniques that raised Elaine's eyebrows but which he dismissed as "knowledge from my travels."
"Your form is sloppy, Tuck!" Art called down to where the stocky youth was practicing with a wooden practice sword. "Remember what Merlin taught—power comes from the hips, not the shoulders!"
At nearly thirteen now, Art had grown taller, though still lean rather than muscular. Her hair, kept short by preference, framed a face that was beginning to lose its childish roundness. Daily training had hardened her body, while Bobby's relentless lessons had sharpened her mind.
"They're improving," Bobby observed, appearing silently beside her as was his habit. "Though none match your progress."
Art acknowledged the compliment with a nod. Early on, she'd learned that Bobby rarely offered praise without cause. "They train hard, but they lack... focus."
"Because they follow someone else's dream," Bobby said. "You fight for a vision that burns inside you. They fight because they seek belonging, adventure, or escape from mundane lives."
Art frowned. "How do I give them my vision?"
"You can't," Bobby said bluntly. "But you can inspire them to develop their own reasons that align with yours." He gestured toward the training youths. "Each must find personal meaning in your larger cause."
Art considered this. "Like Gwen fights because she lost brothers to raiders. And Marten because he wants to create weapons worthy of legend, not just horseshoes."
"Precisely," Bobby approved. "A leader doesn't command loyalty through authority alone, but by connecting individual aspirations to a shared purpose."
Their conversation was interrupted by a lookout's whistle—the signal for approaching strangers. Art immediately straightened, hand moving instinctively to the sword at her hip—no longer the original blade from the stone, which remained too heavy for practical use, but the smaller weapon Bobby had purchased at the fair, now worn constantly.
"Three riders," reported Liam, a wiry fifteen-year-old who'd joined them two months prior after fleeing an abusive master. "Coming up the eastern path."
"Nobles," Bobby observed, his enhanced vision allowing him to see details invisible to others at this distance. "Well-armed, quality horses. Not raiders."
"Should we hide?" Art asked, tension evident in her posture. Though their band was growing, they remained vulnerable to official scrutiny. Many considered them little more than brigands playing at being warriors.
"No," Bobby decided. "This is an opportunity. Visitors of quality mean news, possibly alliances. Receive them with dignity."
Art nodded, quickly issuing instructions to her followers. The sparring ceased immediately, youths hurrying to appear organized rather than chaotic. Elaine emerged from the main lodge where she'd been overseeing the preparation of the evening meal, wiping her hands on her apron.
By the time the riders reached the camp's edge, Art's band had formed into a reasonably orderly assembly, with Art herself, Bobby, and Elaine positioned to greet the visitors.
The lead rider, a man of perhaps thirty with a neatly trimmed beard and the bearing of nobility, surveyed the gathering with undisguised surprise.
"Children?" he said incredulously. "We followed rumors of a growing warband, and we find children playing at soldiers?"
Art stepped forward before Bobby could intervene. "I am Art of Britain," she declared, voice clear and confident. "If you come in peace, you're welcome at our fire. If not, you face warriors who may be young but are not untested."
The nobleman raised an eyebrow, glancing at his companions—a younger man who bore enough resemblance to be a brother or cousin, and an older, scarred man who had the weathered look of a veteran soldier.
"Bold words from a girl barely old enough to leave her mother's skirts," the noble replied, though his tone held more amusement than contempt. "I am Lord Pellinore of the Western Marches. These are my kinsman Sir Kay and my master-at-arms, Bors."
Bobby observed the interaction closely. Pellinore was a name from Arthurian legend—one of the kings who eventually acknowledged Arthur's sovereignty. The coincidence was too perfect to be accidental, suggesting this displacement might be following some predetermined pattern despite the significant deviation of Art's gender.
"What brings you to our camp, Lord Pellinore?" Art asked, maintaining her composure despite the nobleman's dismissive attitude.
Pellinore dismounted, handing his reins to a startled Tuck. "Curiosity, primarily. Tales spread of a youth who pulled a sword from stone and gathers followers to unite Britain. Most dismiss it as childish fantasy, but I make a habit of investigating unusual reports in my territory." His eyes narrowed. "Though I expected a boy, not a girl playing dress-up."
Several of Art's followers tensed at the insult, hands drifting toward weapons. Art herself remained calm, a slight smile playing at her lips.
"Would you care to test whether my sex affects my sword arm, my lord? I'd be happy to demonstrate with practice blades."
Bobby suppressed a smile. The girl learned quickly—challenging Pellinore directly would establish respect or end their movement immediately. It was a calculated risk.
Pellinore studied Art more carefully, noting her confident stance and the calluses visible on her hands—marks of serious weapons training. His expression shifted subtly from dismissal to cautious reassessment.
"Perhaps another time," he said diplomatically. "First, I'd hear more about this sword from stone. Such claims echo old prophecies."
Bobby stepped forward. "My name is Merlin, advisor to Art. Perhaps we could discuss these matters over food and drink? Your journey must have been taxing."
The name "Merlin" caused a visible reaction among the visitors. The veteran, Bors, made a subtle warding gesture, while Sir Kay's eyes widened.
"Merlin?" Pellinore repeated skeptically. "The wizard of old tales?"
"Names often recur throughout history," Bobby said smoothly. "Though I claim no magical powers, merely knowledge and experience I share with my student."
This was, of course, a calculated lie. Bobby had deliberately begun using increasingly obvious telekinesis around the camp, moving objects "mysteriously" and performing other feats that could only be interpreted as magic in this pre-scientific era. The resulting reputation served his purposes—a legendary king needed a legendary wizard, after all.
Elaine, ever practical, intervened. "We have food enough for guests. Please, join us. Whatever your purpose here, hospitality is sacred."
Pellinore hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. We accept your hospitality."
As they moved toward the main lodge, Bobby murmured to Art: "Observe carefully. This is your first interaction with established nobility. Much depends on how you manage it."
The meal that followed was a delicate dance of political maneuvering disguised as casual conversation. Pellinore, while initially skeptical, was clearly intelligent enough to avoid outright dismissal of Art and her followers. He asked pointed questions about their training, resources, and purpose.
Art answered with surprising diplomacy, neither boasting nor downplaying her ambitions. When asked directly about the sword, she described pulling it from stone truthfully, though Bobby noted she carefully avoided claiming divine favor or mystical significance.
"The sword was stuck fast until I grasped it," she explained. "Perhaps it was wedged uniquely, or perhaps... something more. What matters is what I do with it, not how I obtained it."
Pellinore's companion, the veteran Bors, leaned forward. "And what exactly do you intend to do with it, girl? Britain has no shortage of ambitious nobles claiming they'll drive back the Saxons. All have failed."
"Because they fight for themselves," Art replied immediately. "For land, wealth, power. I fight for Britain itself—for a land where people can live without fear, where law prevails over strength alone."
"Noble sentiments," Pellinore observed. "But sentiment doesn't stop Saxon axes."
"No," Art agreed. "Training, discipline, and unity do. That's what we build here—slowly, person by person."
Bobby watched with quiet approval as Art handled the questioning. Six months of intensive education in rhetoric, strategy, and leadership were bearing fruit. She spoke not as a child playing at authority but as someone with a genuine vision.
As the meal concluded, Pellinore's attitude had shifted from dismissive to thoughtfully reserved. "You're an unusual girl, Art of Britain," he admitted. "Though whether that translates to effective leadership remains to be seen."
"Judge by results, my lord," Art suggested. "Return in six months. See what we've built then."
Pellinore raised an eyebrow. "A bold invitation. I may accept it." He glanced at Bobby. "Your... Merlin... has taught you well."
"He has," Art acknowledged. "But the vision is mine."
After the visitors departed—declining the offer to stay the night—Bobby and Art walked the perimeter of the camp as twilight deepened.
"You handled that well," Bobby said. "Particularly the challenge about your sex."
Art shrugged. "It won't be the last time someone dismisses me for being female. I can't afford to appear wounded by it."
"No," Bobby agreed. "Though you should be prepared—some will never accept a woman's authority, regardless of your capabilities."
"Then they're fools," Art said simply. "And I'll use their foolishness against them."
Bobby smiled thinly. "Exactly."
Art was silent for a moment, contemplating the encounter. "Pellinore could be a valuable ally. He has resources, fighters, legitimacy we lack."
"Indeed. Though his support would come with expectations and conditions."
"Everything does," Art replied with a wisdom beyond her years. "The question is whether the price is worth paying."
Later that night, after Art had retired to sleep, Elaine sought out Bobby. He was sitting alone on a fallen log at the camp's edge, gazing at the stars with the detached interest of one who had seen them from countless perspectives across millions of years.
"She's changing," Elaine said without preamble, settling beside him.
"Of course," Bobby replied. "That's the point."
"I don't mean her skills or knowledge." Elaine's voice held concern. "Her heart is hardening. She speaks of strategy and advantage where once she spoke of justice and protection."
Bobby turned to study the woman. Six months of hard living had lined her face, though she remained handsome in a practical, weathered way. Unlike her daughter, who dressed exclusively in male attire now, Elaine maintained traditionally feminine appearance while adapting to their rustic circumstances.
"Leadership requires both idealism and pragmatism," Bobby said. "She's finding balance between them."
"Is she? Or is she simply becoming what you want her to be?"
Bobby raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you think that is?"
"A weapon," Elaine said bluntly. "A sword you're forging to change the course of Britain's history. But for whose benefit? Certainly not hers."
Bobby smiled thinly. "Your daughter was never destined for a quiet life, Elaine. With or without my intervention, she would have rebelled against the limitations placed on her. I merely provide direction for that rebellion."
"To what end?"
The question hung between them. Bobby considered how much truth to offer. "Candidly? Curiosity. I've seen countless kingdoms rise and fall. The patterns rarely change. But Art... she represents something unique. A deviation from expected outcomes."
Elaine frowned. "You speak as if you've lived a thousand years."
"Sometimes it feels that way," Bobby said, the understatement amusing him privately.
"You're not human," Elaine stated flatly. "Not entirely. I've watched you. You don't sleep. Wounds that should take weeks to heal vanish overnight. Sometimes objects move when you're not touching them."
Bobby remained silent, neither confirming nor denying.
Elaine continued, her voice dropping. "Some of the youths call you a wizard behind your back. Others say you're an angel or demon walking in human form. I don't know what you are, but I know my daughter is mortal, vulnerable." Her eyes hardened. "If your 'curiosity' leads her to destruction, I will find a way to make you suffer for it."
Bobby couldn't help laughing—a short, genuine sound of amusement that startled Elaine. "You're remarkable," he said. "Most humans would cower before the unknown. You threaten it."
"I'm a mother," Elaine said simply. "Nothing is more dangerous."
Bobby nodded, appreciating her courage even while knowing her threat was empty. "Your daughter won't be destroyed," he said more seriously. "Changed, certainly. Challenged, undoubtedly. But I've seen enough to know she has the capacity to become exactly what Britain needs in this moment of history."
"And if that requires her to sacrifice her humanity? Her capacity for compassion and love?"
"True leadership requires balance, not sacrifice," Bobby countered. "Compassion without strength is merely sentiment. Strength without compassion is merely tyranny. Art must develop both."
Elaine studied him, clearly not entirely convinced but willing to be hopeful. "She deserves happiness as well as purpose."
"Perhaps," Bobby allowed. "Though history suggests the two rarely coexist for those who change its course."
---
True to his word, Lord Pellinore returned six months later. By then, Art's band had swelled to nearly fifty followers, most young but now including a handful of experienced fighters—veterans disillusioned with existing power structures or seeking meaning in their twilight years.
The camp had evolved into a proper settlement, with permanent structures, organized training grounds, and even modest crops cultivated under Elaine's direction. Bobby had introduced various "innovations" that he claimed to have learned in distant lands—improved sanitation systems, more efficient cooking methods, and enhanced defensive arrangements.
When Pellinore arrived, accompanied by a larger retinue than before, he found Art drilling a squad of archers on a newly constructed range. At thirteen and a half, she'd grown taller, her body lean and whipcord-strong from constant training. She wore simple but well-made leather armor, the sword from the fair hanging properly at her hip.
"Impressive progress," Pellinore acknowledged after surveying the settlement. "You've built something substantial from nothing."
"We've only begun," Art replied confidently. "Each month brings new followers and new skills."
Pellinore nodded thoughtfully. "I've spoken of you in certain circles. Opinion is divided—most dismiss you as a curiosity at best, a dangerous upstart at worst."
"And your opinion, my lord?" Art asked directly.
Pellinore considered his answer carefully. "I'm... intrigued. What you've accomplished here exceeds expectations, especially given your youth and... unusual circumstances."
"My sex, you mean," Art said bluntly.
"Partly," Pellinore admitted. "Though equally your age and lack of noble birth."
Bobby, standing silently nearby, noted the nobleman's carefully diplomatic phrasing. Pellinore was clearly reassessing Art's potential importance.
"I've come with a proposal," Pellinore continued. "A test, if you will."
Art raised an eyebrow, inviting him to continue.
"Saxon raiders have been troubling villages near the eastern boundary of my lands. My forces are stretched thin dealing with another matter to the south. If your... followers... can successfully protect these villages for the next month, I would consider it demonstration of both your capabilities and intentions."
Bobby observed Art's reaction carefully. This was a significant moment—the first recognition from established authority, but also the first real combat mission. How she responded would reveal much about her development.
Art didn't answer immediately, considering the proposal with appropriate seriousness. "How many raiders?" she finally asked. "What patterns have they established? What resources do the villages possess?"
Pellinore looked impressed by the practical questions. "Details my master-at-arms can provide," he said, gesturing to Bors, who stepped forward with a leather map case. "You speak like a commander, not a glory-seeker."
"Glory means nothing to the dead," Art replied. "Preparation means everything to the living."
Bobby suppressed a smile. He'd drilled that particular lesson repeatedly during their strategy sessions.
As Bors unrolled maps and began discussing specifics, Bobby drifted away, leaving Art to handle the tactical planning. He'd trained her extensively in map-reading, terrain assessment, and resource allocation—skills she'd absorbed with remarkable aptitude.
Elaine found him overlooking the training grounds, where life continued normally despite the important visitors.
"This is a significant step," she observed. "Moving from training to actual combat."
Bobby nodded. "It was inevitable. Theories must be tested against reality."
"Children will die," Elaine said bluntly. "Some of these youths have never faced real combat."
"Most have suffered Saxon raids," Bobby countered. "They've seen combat's aftermath, if not experienced it directly. And none are truly children anymore—the youngest is fourteen, old enough to be considered adult in this era."
Elaine's expression hardened. "You speak of them as if they're historical footnotes, not living people."
"From a certain perspective, that's exactly what they are," Bobby replied, his voice neutral. "But don't mistake my perspective for lack of concern. I've prepared them as thoroughly as possible. The rest depends on their choices and fortune's whims."
"And Art? Is she ready to command in actual battle?"
Bobby considered the question seriously. "She has the knowledge. Her tactical understanding is exceptional for her age—for any age, really. Whether she has the temperament, the ability to make hard decisions under pressure... that remains to be seen."
That evening, Art called together her entire following, standing before them with Pellinore and his men observing from a respectful distance.
"We've been offered our first true mission," she announced, her clear voice carrying across the gathered faces. "Lord Pellinore has asked us to defend villages against Saxon raiders. This isn't practice. This is what we've trained for—protecting our people from those who would conquer us."
Bobby watched the reactions ripple through the group—excitement, apprehension, determination in varying measures. Art had developed a natural charisma that held attention and inspired confidence.
"Participation is voluntary," she continued. "I won't order anyone to risk their life. Those who prefer to remain here and continue training may do so without shame."
A murmur ran through the assembly at this unexpected statement. Bobby nodded approvingly—Art was demonstrating both confidence and wisdom. Forced followers made unreliable warriors.
"I will go," Gwen declared immediately, stepping forward. In the year since joining, she'd become Art's closest companion and most loyal supporter. Now seventeen, she'd developed into a formidable archer and scout.
"And I," Tuck added, followed quickly by Marten, Bran, and others of the original group.
One by one, nearly every member of the band stepped forward, until only the youngest—three boys recently arrived, barely fourteen—remained hesitant.
"You three will remain," Art decided, removing their need to choose. "Not because you lack courage, but because someone must protect our home and continue training for when we return."
The boys looked simultaneously relieved and disappointed, but accepted the assignment with dignity.
Plans proceeded rapidly. Bobby advised Art on equipment, formations, and logistics, while Bors provided specific intelligence about the raiders' patterns. Thirty-eight of Art's followers would participate, divided into flexible squads based on ability and function.
The night before their departure, Bobby found Art sitting alone by a small fire, studying maps by its light.
"Second thoughts?" he asked, settling beside her.
Art shook her head. "Not about going. But..." She hesitated. "People might die tomorrow. Because of my decisions."
"Yes," Bobby said simply. "Leadership carries that burden."
"How do you bear it?" she asked, looking up at him with unusually vulnerable eyes. "Knowing your choices determine who lives and dies?"
Bobby considered his answer carefully. In his incalculable existence, he'd witnessed—and occasionally caused—more deaths than could be counted. The weight of that knowledge had long since been absorbed into his fundamental understanding of existence.
"By acknowledging three truths," he finally said. "First, that death comes for all eventually—your decisions may determine when, but never if. Second, that purpose gives meaning to life's brevity—a short existence with meaning outvalues a long one without. And third, that the alternative to making difficult decisions isn't avoiding death, but surrendering control of who dies and why."
Art absorbed this in silence, her young face solemn in the firelight. "Will you be with us? In the fighting?"
"I'll observe," Bobby said. "But this is your command, your opportunity to prove yourself. I won't intervene unless absolutely necessary."
Art nodded, accepting this condition. "One more question," she said hesitantly.
"Yes?"
"The sword—the original one from the stone. You've kept it all this time, saying I wasn't ready." She looked up at him directly. "Am I ready now?"
Bobby studied her thoughtfully. The girl had developed remarkably over the past year. Her combat skills, while not yet masterful, had progressed beyond basic competence. Her leadership abilities had blossomed naturally, drawing loyalty through genuine concern for her followers rather than intimidation or manipulation.
"Yes," he decided. "It's time."
From within his quarters, Bobby retrieved the sword she'd pulled from stone over a year before. He'd modified it during the intervening months, using his advanced knowledge and telekinetic precision to enhance its balance and edge while maintaining its original appearance.
"This blade has a name," he told Art as he presented it to her. "In the old tongue, it's called Caliburn."
Art accepted the sword reverently, testing its weight. Though still heavy for her frame, she'd grown stronger, capable of wielding it effectively for limited periods.
"It feels... different," she observed. "Lighter somehow, yet still substantial."
"A good sword becomes an extension of its wielder," Bobby explained. "This one has been waiting for you to grow into it."
Art practiced a few experimental swings, the blade cutting air with a satisfying whisper. "Thank you," she said simply. "For this, and... everything else."
Bobby inclined his head, acknowledging her gratitude without verbalization. He'd never been comfortable with human sentimentality, even before his transformation.
"Rest," he advised. "Tomorrow begins your legend in earnest."
---
The Saxon raiders struck at dawn three days later, emerging from morning mist to attack a riverside village that had been identified as a likely target. Art's band, having arrived the previous evening, was prepared.
Bobby observed from a distant hilltop, using his enhanced vision to monitor the engagement without participating. Art had positioned her forces strategically—archers on elevated positions, infantry concealed until needed, scouts providing early warning of the raiders' approach.
The engagement that followed was brief but fierce. The Saxons, expecting an undefended village, found instead a disciplined force that met them with concentrated arrow fire followed by coordinated melee combat.
Art herself fought in the center, Caliburn gleaming in the morning light. Bobby noted with approval that she maintained awareness of the entire battlefield even while engaging individual opponents. Her combat style favored speed and precision over raw power, using her smaller size as an advantage rather than limitation.
When the skirmish ended, sixteen Saxon raiders lay dead or wounded, while the remainder fled into the forest. Art's band had suffered three injuries but no fatalities—an impressive outcome for their first true combat.
Bobby approached as they secured the village, binding wounds and accepting grateful thanks from the inhabitants.
"Well executed," he told Art privately. "Especially the concealed archer positions."
Art nodded, accepting the praise without visible pride. Blood spattered her armor and face, and her expression held the particular solemnity of one who has taken life for the first time.
"Two escaped," she noted, cleaning Caliburn methodically. "They'll warn others."
"Good," Bobby replied. "Let them speak of a defending force that appeared from nowhere. Fear can be a powerful ally."
Over the following weeks, Art's band moved between the vulnerable villages in Pellinore's eastern territories, sometimes engaging raiders directly, other times using ambush tactics to discourage attacks before they began. Word spread quickly among both defenders and attackers—a youthful warband led by a girl with a magnificent sword was challenging Saxon incursions successfully.
By the time Pellinore arrived to evaluate their performance, Art's reputation had already grown beyond his immediate territories. The band had suffered casualties—two dead, several wounded—but had prevented any successful raids against the villages under their protection.
"Impressive," Pellinore acknowledged, surveying the defensive arrangements Art had established at a particularly vulnerable crossing. "Unconventional, but effective."
Art, now sporting a healing cut along her jawline from a recent skirmish, accepted the assessment with quiet confidence. "We adapt to circumstances rather than following traditional formations. It confuses opponents who expect standard tactics."
Pellinore's master-at-arms, Bors, had been examining the positioning of Art's sentries. "The girl has good instincts," he told his lord. "Better than many knights I've trained."
"The girl has a name," Art said coolly, though without hostility. "And appreciates being addressed directly."
Bors blinked in surprise, then offered a gruff nod of acknowledgment. "Fair point... Commander Art."
The title—used for the first time—hung in the air with significance. Art accepted it with a simple nod, neither rejecting the recognition nor appearing overly pleased by it.
"What happens now?" she asked Pellinore directly. "We've fulfilled our part of the arrangement."
The nobleman stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Indeed you have. Better than I anticipated, truthfully." He studied Art with new respect. "I propose an alliance. My resources and legitimacy combined with your... unconventional forces."
"To what end?" Art pressed.
"Initially, continued protection of vulnerable territories. Eventually... perhaps something more ambitious." Pellinore glanced at Bobby. "Your Merlin hints at greater destiny for you. While I'm not one for prophecies, I recognize effective leadership when I see it."
Art considered the offer carefully. "An alliance requires equal respect, not patronage. My followers aren't merely auxiliary forces to be commanded by others."
"Understood," Pellinore agreed. "You maintain independent command, coordinating with my forces rather than being subordinate to them."
Bobby observed the negotiation with approval. Art was demonstrating political acumen alongside tactical skill—essential for her long-term ambitions.
When terms were agreed upon, Pellinore extended his arm in the warrior's greeting. Art clasped it firmly, the alliance sealed with that simple gesture.
"Britain needs new leadership," Pellinore said quietly. "The old ways falter against persistent invaders. Perhaps what emerges will be... unexpected."
As Pellinore and his retinue departed, Bobby joined Art atop a small rise overlooking the village they'd defended.
"Your first alliance with established nobility," he observed. "A significant step."
Art nodded, her expression thoughtful. "One lord doesn't unite Britain. But it's a beginning."
"Every journey starts thus," Bobby agreed. "Pellinore's support provides legitimacy others will notice. Some will oppose you more fiercely because of it. Others will consider joining your cause who previously dismissed it."
Art touched the healing cut on her jaw absently. "People died following my commands," she said, her voice steady but subdued. "Hal and Wynn won't return to our camp. Three others bear wounds that may never fully heal."
"The cost of leadership," Bobby said simply. "The first deaths are the hardest to bear. Not because they matter more, but because they shatter the illusion that you can protect everyone."
"Does it get easier?" Art asked, meeting his eyes directly.
"It shouldn't," Bobby replied truthfully. "The day sending others to die becomes easy is the day you're no longer fit to lead."
Art absorbed this in silence, watching as her followers prepared to break camp—no longer untested youths but veterans of actual combat, with the confidence and solemnity that accompanied such experience.
"I killed seven men," she said finally. "I remember each face."
"Good," Bobby said. "Remember them. Not with guilt, but with understanding of what your decisions create. Death and life. Protection and destruction. Leadership encompasses both."
Art studied Caliburn, sheathed at her hip. "The sword feels different now that it's tasted blood. Heavier somehow, despite its perfect balance."
"Because you now understand its true purpose," Bobby explained. "Not as symbol or talisman, but as instrument of death and change."
"I won't let their deaths be meaningless," Art declared, her gaze shifting to the horizon. "Hal, Wynn, the raiders—all of them. If we must fight and die, let it be for something worthwhile. A Britain where people live free from fear, where law prevails over strength alone."
Bobby nodded, recognizing the echo of her earlier words to Pellinore, now invested with deeper conviction. "From such promises, legends are born," he said quietly. "The question remains whether history will record you as hero or conqueror."
Art's jaw set with determination. "Why not both? To create what I envision will require both roles."
Bobby smiled thinly, pleased by her understanding. "Indeed. The greatest rulers are those who conquer not merely territory but hearts and minds. Physical dominion without moral authority creates only temporary kingdoms."
As they prepared to return to their main camp, Bobby reflected on Art's development. She was progressing faster than he'd anticipated, blending natural leadership abilities with the knowledge he provided. Her gender remained an obstacle in this era, but she was increasingly turning that perceived weakness into strength—opponents who underestimated her based on sex often found themselves outmaneuvered or defeated.
The quantum temporal energy readings remained stable. This displacement showed no signs of ending soon, giving him ample time to guide Art's continuing evolution from girl with a sword to Britain's potential savior.
For the first time in eons, Bobby felt genuine curiosity about the future. Not the grand sweep of cosmic development—he'd witnessed enough universal cycles to predict those patterns—but the specific, unpredictable course of human events centered around this remarkable girl.
Whether she truly unified Britain or died in the attempt remained uncertain. But her story promised something Bobby had long thought impossible in his endless existence: novelty.