From the moment Godric's boot sank into the velvet crimson carpet stretched across the grey stones of the courtyard, his jaw hung slack with awe. His crimson eyes climbed skyward, tracing the sheer height of the Grand Palace. Its ashen walls rising into two spires that seemed to pierce the heavens themselves.
Every buttress and column gleamed with gold, shaped into dragons, gryphons, and other fantastical beasts, their forms catching the afternoon sun in a blaze of brilliance. The palace grounds were vast, the courtyard curving like the inner wall of a colosseum, with steel streetlamps crowned by banners dyed the blood-red of House Pendragon, each one emblazoned with the royal crest.
From between the towering spires, a lance of white light surged endlessly upward, stabbing the sky like a beacon, its source hidden from sight. Salazar, Rowena, Helga, and Jeanne stood beside Godric, struck into the same wordless awe, their gazes flicking uneasily to their Excalibur uniforms as if they had turned up underdressed to a royal summons. Helena, however, was absent, having chosen instead to call on her family. Salazar had little doubt her true intent was to make her defiance plain. That she would not abandon Excalibur, but she had asked that her regards be passed to the Pendragon twins nonetheless.
Godric's eyes fell to the staircase sweeping up toward the grand entrance. Every step was lined with guards clad head to toe in alabaster armor traced with golden filigree. Their spears, etched with veins of glowing azure circuitry, gleamed like living crystal. Each breastplate bore an emblem Godric did not recognize, though its prominence left no doubt it marked an order of the highest distinction.
"Blimey… this is incredible," Godric breathed, still craning his neck. "I can't even see the top."
"You took the words clean out of my mouth, dear friend," Salazar remarked smoothly as the car door shut behind him. His eyes glimmered as he drank in the sight. "By the Gods, it is nothing short of breathtaking. A marvel of human craft and ambition. Dare I say, I doubt even the grandest works of our world would hold a candle to it."
"Oo, I've always wanted to visit a palace," Helga said with a bounce in her step, eyes glinting with mischief. "To see how the prissy nobles live, and more importantly, to see what they've got tucked away in the kitchens." She licked her lips. "I'm talking candied fruits, roasted pheasant, maybe even those honey cakes they only bake for coronations. You know, the good stuff."
Rowena groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Helga, please. Tell me you're not actually planning to raid the royal kitchens. If King Uther wasn't considering some form of punishment before, he will once you're caught making off with his prime ham and caviar."
Helga smirked. "Oh, come on, Row. The man's got vaults of food. He wouldn't even notice a leg of lamb missing… two at most."
Jeanne chuckled into her hand. "You sound like you've already mapped out the escape route."
"Dang right I have," Helga said, puffing proudly. "First chance I get, I'm sneaking down there and making out like a bandit in the night. They'd never take me alive."
"Helga," Rowena said in exasperation, her hand dragging down her face. "If they catch you, I'll swear before the Gods I've never laid eyes on you."
A new voice cut through her words. "My, my—aren't they a lively bunch."
The friends turned toward the grand staircase. The guards flanking it immediately stiffened, fists pressed to breastplates in a crisp salute as two figures descended with measured grace.
Arthur Pendragon moved with easy confidence, a grin tugging at his lips. He wore a crisp white shirt and black slacks, polished loafers glinting faintly beneath the glow of the chandeliers. A deep red coat, its trim embroidered with gold, hung over his shoulders, a chain clasped across his chest bearing the Pendragon crest.
At his side, Artoria descended with quiet poise, sapphire blue and white silk flowing elegantly about her frame, the fabric woven with regal motifs that caught the light. Where Arthur carried himself with boyish charm, Artoria radiated restraint and composure.
"Wouldn't you agree, dear sister?" Arthur said, his grin widening as he tucked his hands into his pockets.
Artoria's eyes lingered briefly on the group below before she rolled them ever so slightly. "Quite," she replied, her tone dry yet refined.
Immediately, all five of them straightened, bending into a respectful bow.
Arthur raised an eyebrow before groaning, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, spare us the formalities. Yes, yes, we may be royalty, but it doesn't change the fact that we are fellow students. You'll make me feel frightfully old."
"And yet," Artoria's gaze swept over the girls, cold and cutting, "proper etiquette must never be forgotten. Ladies curtsey, not bow. It is a simple rule, and one does not break such rules lightly." Her eyes narrowed to slits. "There are those who have been flogged for less."
Helga, Rowena, and Jeanne blanched at once, instinctively huddling closer together as if bracing for a lash of her words.
Arthur sighed, stepping in with a dramatic shake of his head. "Oh, do stop terrifying them, sister. By the Gods, this is precisely why I dread taking you anywhere. You sap the cheer from a room quicker than a Dementor." His lips curled into a grin. "I'm half convinced you secretly are one."
Artoria scowled at her brother, but Arthur only flashed a grin. "Anyway, do come inside. The sun's climbing higher, and I simply loathe this weather. Rain, shine, rain again, it never ends. With this blasted humidity, I daresay I'd need a shower after my shower." He turned on his heel, gesturing grandly with a wave of his hand as he started up the stairs.
His twin rolled her eyes, then followed, her movements measured and regal. Just before ascending fully, she cast a sharp glance over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowing not at Godric himself, but at the sword slung across his back.
Godric stiffened, throat tight as he realized her scrutiny lingered on the weapon, not him. When she turned away, he exhaled and exchanged a quick look with his friends. They only shrugged, unsure of what to make of it. Still, none of them dared hesitate as they followed the twins into the palace.
****
The interior of the palace was no less breathtaking. Led by the twins, the five friends were guided through a labyrinth of corridors, each passage opening into another marvel of opulence. Towering walls rose on either side, their windows framed in gold, while alabaster ceilings soared overhead, etched with intricate carvings that caught the light like living lace. Rowena's keen eye quickly discerned the blend of styles—human arches, elvish tracery, dwarven stonework, orcish strength in the buttresses, even therian flourishes in the curved motifs. It was no surprise. This was King Uther Pendragon's legacy, a monument to the alliances and friendships that had bound Avalon together.
From the gleaming white marble veined with gold to the polished obsidian floors that mirrored every torchlight, every step spoke of wealth and dominion. Portraits stretched ten feet high along one gallery, kings and queens of Camelot staring down from gilded frames, their solemn eyes following those who passed. Bouquets of fresh flowers filled carved vases at every turn, their fragrance thick and sweet, layered so heavily in the air it felt almost perfumed.
Godric was wide-eyed with awe. Raised in the windswept moors of England, he had once thought Excalibur Castle the very pinnacle of majesty. Now, the Grand Palace put even his alma mater to shame.
Salazar, however, looked elsewhere. The guards in alabaster plate stood like statues at every corner, spears upright, white helms gleaming. Yet even behind their faceless masks, he felt their scrutiny. The servants moved briskly about, each role as one might expect. Maids in black with white frills and bonnets, butlers in swallow-tailed tuxedos polished to perfection. But not all bore such finery.
Salazar's gaze sharpened on a different kind of servant. Modest uniforms of dull myrtle green, plain buttons at their collars, yet what struck him most were the blackened iron bands fastened around their throats. He caught the eye of a halfling girl as she bent over her mop. For a fleeting heartbeat her brown eyes met his emerald, then darted away, her shoulders hunched as she shrank back into her work.
His lips thinned, gaze narrowing. Even here, in these gilded halls where power wrapped itself in the guise of nobility and splendor, the old cruelties endured.
"Welcome to our humble home, dear friends," Arthur announced with a flourish, arms spread wide as he glanced over his shoulder at them. His grin was boyish. "I know, I know, I embellish. But these halls have been ours since childhood, filled with memories and mischief alike."
Jeanne chuckled, lifting a hand to her lips. "Looking at it now, it's anything but humble, your grace. My family's house is hardly the size of your landing."
"Oh, you should see Row's place," Helga said, eyes wide with mock awe. "It's stunning… in a dark, cold, terrifying sort of way."
Salazar turned a sly smile on Rowena. "You don't say? Though I'd argue nothing could possibly be drearier than Slytherin Manor."
Rowena rolled her eyes, lips tightening despite the faintest twitch of a smile. "You two are insufferable."
"What about you, Gryffindor?" Artoria interjected, her tone sharp as she looked back over her shoulder. Her piercing gaze caught Godric off guard, his crimson eyes locking with hers before darting away. "Tell us more about your home."
"Oh—um," Godric shifted slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Well, I come from a small town in England called Dark's Hollow. My uncle serves as Captain of the Guard."
"Captain of the Guard, you say?" Arthur echoed, his interest piqued at once. "Now that sounds intriguing. Do go on."
"It's nothing grand," Godric said quickly. "Just a modest barracks supplying guards for our town and a few villages nearby. My own home was a little cottage on the outskirts. We weren't wealthy by any measure, but we weren't poor either. We had enough, and…" his lips softened into a faint smile, "we were happy."
Arthur returned the smile, genuine and approving. "Modest and humble, Gryffindor. Father would most definitely take a real shine to you."
"You presume too much, dear brother," Artoria cut in, her eyes narrowing.
"And you need to relax," Arthur retorted with a smirk. "If you keep yourself wound that tightly, one day I'll wake up to find you've snapped. Storming through the palace, hating everyone and everything in sight."
Before Artoria could reply, Arthur turned back to the five friends. "Although, I must warn you, our father shares my sister's absence of humor. The man is stoic, uncompromising, and oftentimes… ruthless." He lifted a hand to his brow, tilting his head back in mock sorrow. "Why, I have seen him send a man to the guillotine for no greater crime than bowing incorrectly. Tragic, truly. Poor soul never stood a chance."
The color drained from the five friends' faces at once, each of them swallowing hard. Their eyes flicked toward Artoria, searching desperately for some sign it was a jest. Yet she betrayed nothing. Her gaze remained fixed forward, her expression cold as stone.
Arthur clasped his hands together with mock despair. "So, I beg of you. Be on your very best behavior. It would break my heart to see any one of you leave this palace without your head still attached to your shoulders."
Helga raised a trembling finger, her mouth half-open, but Arthur had already swept his attention forward once more. With a bright, sudden grin, he spread his arms toward the pair of towering golden doors ahead.
"And here we are!" he declared.
The doors swung inward with a low, resonant groan, and at once the triumphant blare of trumpets filled the air. The five friends froze at the threshold, eyes wide, every breath caught in their throats as they stepped into the throne room.
It was vast, easily rivaling the Great Hall of Excalibur, its sheer scale humbling. Sunlight spilled through rows of towering windows on either side, casting fractured beams across a ceiling painted with sweeping murals of Avalon's triumphs and tragedies. Along the walls rose blackened balconies of intricate gothic stonework, their shadows coiling like silent sentinels above the chamber.
At the far end, twin staircases curled upward in graceful arcs, converging on a second landing before climbing yet higher to a third, where the throne itself commanded the chamber. Hewn from a single block of dark, gleaming marble, it seemed less a seat than a monument.
And above it, dominating the wall, stretched a colossal relief wrought from black stone and gilded gold—a tableau of the Five Heroes. Uther Pendragon stood tall at the center, sword raised in eternal vigilance. To his right, Gil-Galad with bow drawn taut; to his left, Aura Stormbreaker, fists clenched in defiance. Flanking them, Broughston Ashorc with his war hammer aloft, and Shin Hati, spear poised to strike. Together, the figures loomed like gods carved in stone, their presence pressing down upon all who entered.
Seated upon the throne was a figure who seemed less man than monument. His vast frame was clad in a fitted black suit, a heavy cape draped across one shoulder, its high collar curling upward like the wings of some dark beast. Over his right shoulder rested a pauldron of blackened steel chased with gold, its brutal lines fastened to his torso by broad leather belts.
His face was carved with severity. Sharp, rigid features that carried no trace of warmth, only an austere and unyielding stoicism. One pale blue eye fixed upon the five friends and his children as they approached, cold and unblinking. The other was sealed shut beneath a scar that cleaved from brow to cheek, ending just shy of his upper lip. Gray hair swept back in disciplined lines, while a Donovan-styled beard framed the iron-hard set of his jaw. Upon his head rested a crown wrought of black and gold, more circlet than ornament, but regal all the same.
Godric felt his chest tighten as he looked upon the man. King Uther Pendragon, sovereign of Camelot, and perhaps the most formidable figure in all of Avalon. The air itself seemed to cool beneath the weight of his gaze. Even Salazar, whose wit rarely faltered, felt confidence drain from him in the King's presence. Helga edged unconsciously closer to Rowena, as though her friend might shield her from the weight pressing down on them, while Jeanne bit hard upon her lip, her eyes fixed firmly upon the floor, unable to meet the sovereign's gaze.
"His Royal Highness," a herald's voice rang through the throne room, resonant as the trumpets faded. "King Uther Pendragon the Thirteenth. Sovereign of Camelot, Ruler of the Thirteen Territories and the First Men, Lord of the Council of Kings, Slayer of Randal Dorn, Conqueror of the Ozarks, the Grey Beast, Lord of Dragonstone, Protector of the Realm."
The announcement hung heavy in the air as Uther rose from the throne. Seven feet of broad of muscle and authority descended the staircase, each step of his polished shoes against marble echoing louder than seemed natural, like the toll of a bell that pressed upon the heart. Godric and his friends felt sweat prick their brows as that single pale blue eye remained fixed upon them. With each step, their pulses quickened, as though the weight of the entire realm bore down upon their shoulders.
He passed Arthur and Artoria, who bowed and curtsied with flawless precision before their father, their expressions unreadable. Uther halted only a few feet from the five, towering over them, his face carved into immovable stone.
"So," his voice was a low thunder, deep enough to reverberate in their bones. His gaze settled squarely on Godric. "You are the one they call Godric Gryffindor. The Lion of Ignis, and now… the Hero of Caerleon." His single eye narrowed. "I do say, lad, for one who bested the Grim Reaper, you're shorter than I imagined."
Godric swallowed hard, bowing quickly and perhaps too low. Salazar followed, his posture equally stiff. Rowena and Jeanne curtsied with grace, while Helga remained frozen in her daze until Rowena nudged her sharply in the ribs. She attempted a curtsy of her own, only to trip on her hem and collapse face-first into the crimson carpet.
The entire room froze. Uther's eye widened a fraction before he stooped, extending one massive hand toward her.
"Oh, dear. Are you hurt?" he asked.
Helga scrambled upright, cheeks blazing and eyes glistening. "P-please forgive me, your majesty! I didn't mean to, honest, it was an accident!" She clasped her hands as if in prayer. "Please don't cut off my head!"
"Cut off your—?" Uther's expression went slack as he exhaled heavily, massaging his temple. "Arthur…" His gaze slid sideways toward his son. "Tell me this isn't yet another one of your tasteless jests."
Arthur, right on cue, doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach and slapping his thigh. "By the Gods, her face!" he gasped between fits, earning a roll of the eyes from Artoria, though even she fought a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Uther shook his head, shoulders sinking slightly as he straightened. "You must forgive my son. He's incorrigible." His gaze softened as it swept back over the five. "Despite his tall tales, I assure you, I have no intention of separating heads from shoulders today. You have my word: all of you shall leave this hall entirely intact."
Helga's eyes remain wide and so did the rest of her friends. Slowly, she took King Uther's hand as the man helped her to her feet and in that moment, everyone felt the tension in their shoulders ease although Salazar shot Arthur a nasty glare.
"Now that we've put that little misunderstanding to rest," Uther said at last. His expression softened by a faint smile. "Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot, and I bid you welcome. As for the purpose of this visit, there is no need for alarm. I merely wished to make the acquaintance of the boy who saved Caerleon," his gaze swept over the five of them "and of his steadfast friends. I confess, I have followed your exploits since your first appearance at the Congregation."
Salazar arched a brow, intrigue flashing in his emerald eyes. "Begging your pardon, your majesty, but are you suggesting you know who we are?"
"Quite," Uther replied with ease. "I know your names, your Houses, your deeds and distinctions… and of course," he allowed a faint, knowing grin to crease his lips, his single blue eye glinting as he winked. "Your monikers. Rest assured, they are very well earned."
Rowena stiffened, her face blanching at the thought of the King himself knowing the nickname she had been branded with at the Congregation.
"Oooh!" Helga's amber eyes lit up with a childlike excitement. "Does that mean you were in the Congregation too?" She caught herself, cleared her throat quickly, and added, "Er… your majesty."
Uther's laugh boomed warmly through the hall. "But of course. My House would have been insulted had I not. It was my forebear who founded the Congregation of Clans. Like my predecessors, I studied at Excalibur, a son of Ignis, and in time, a Visionary." He folded his arms, drawing a long breath that seemed to stir a moment of nostalgia. "Those were days to be cherished."
His gaze shifted squarely to Godric, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And your Bellum Inter Duos. A spectacle worthy of history. As for your speech…" He gave a slow nod. "It has been long indeed since these old bones were stirred so."
Godric flushed, grinning sheepishly as his hand rubbed the back of his neck.
"I have also been told…" Uther's words softened, carrying genuine weight. "Of your beloved. What befell her, and you, was monstrous. Yet another crime upon the Tower's ledger. Had I known sooner…" His expression darkened for a brief instant before it gentled again.
Godric lowered his gaze. "I'm honored, your majesty, truly. But no number of ifs, or well wishes, will ever bring her back. She's gone. It's been a long, dark road, but I've come to dim my fire, and make my peace with it."
For the first time, Uther looked momentarily taken aback. Then he inclined his head with a faint smile. "Wiser words I have not heard in many years. It is no wonder my children speak so highly of you." His eye flicked knowingly toward Artoria. "Especially my daughter."
"Father!" Artoria's composure shattered in an instant, her cheeks flushing crimson as her eyes widened.
Uther's laughter thundered across the chamber as Arthur, already grinning, doubled over and nearly wheezed from the force of his own laughter.
"Though I believe, with all that has transpired, I cannot begin to imagine the measure of your suffering and loss, Miss Ravenclaw," Uther said, his gaze settling on Rowena.
Her sapphire eyes widened.
"I knew your grandfather well, fondly, I might add," Uther continued. "We shared our fair share of battlefields. The man could navigate a field of swords and soldiers as deftly as a court of words and politicians. His eloquence with both bow and speech was unmatched. He would have made a fine Director." A low chuckle rumbled from him. "After that blasted Council dismissed him, I offered him a seat as my Regent. He, of course, declined."
Rowena's breath caught. "Grandfather… a Regent of Camelot?"
Helga's jaw dropped. Jeanne's eyes widened.
Salazar leaned closer to Godric. "By the Gods… the Ravenclaws could have been third to the Camelot throne, and her grandfather refused? What kind of absolute lunatic—?"
Uther cleared his throat pointedly, silencing the aside. His expression darkened. "Tragically, yet in truth, I understood." He drew a long breath, then his gaze hardened. "Now, Lamar Burgess."
At the sound of the name, all five stiffened. Even Arthur and Artoria's features grew grim.
"I held the man in no esteem, even in his earliest days as a mere Auror of the Clock Tower," Uther said, his jaw tightening. "His reputation was already mired in controversy, blackened by scandal, and yet they brandished that grotesque, blood-soaked moniker of his as though it were a weapon. An instrument of fear to keep others in line. And though I loathed it, I will not deny… it was effective."
He exhaled sharply, the sound like steel drawn from a scabbard. "But I knew him for what he was, a serpent. From the very moment he ascended to the Director's chair, I knew he would bring the Tower to ruin. And I was proven right."
Uther's gaze darkened further, each word weighted like stone. "His madness spilled innocent blood upon these very streets. My streets. During the Insurrection. Yet another abomination orchestrated by his filthy dog, George Hartshorne." He scoffed. "Had that wretch survived the siege, I would have torn his head from his shoulders myself."
Salazar's lips curved into a dark, twisted smirk at the mention of the disgraced Sheriff of Caerleon, his emerald eyes glinting.
Uther's stern gaze softened as it fell upon Rowena. "Despite all, I am not blind to your ties with Burgess," he said. "You have my sympathies, child, that you were made to bear the truth in so cruel a fashion. To stand against one who once held your heart must have been no easy burden."
Rowena lowered her gaze. "I appreciate your kindness, your majesty, and you are right." She drew a breath. "There was a man named Lamar Burgess. A man I loved, who, I believed, loved me in return. He cared, he cherished, he taught me much. About the world, about truth, about justice."
Helga's amber eyes softened as she watched her friend speak.
Rowena's hand came to rest upon her chest. "But I have come to learn that the man I held in such adoration was only a mask. A role he wore with flawless precision. That man never truly existed. And though it wounded me more than I can ever say, I choose to believe that the Lamar who made me laugh, who comforted me when I wept, who sang softly to me during the storms as he tucked me into bed… that Lamar was stolen from me, as so many others were, by the monster who claimed his face."
She gave a small, broken laugh, though her sapphire eyes glistened. "Perhaps it is foolish, perhaps nothing more than self-deception, but I loathe the man he truly was, and always will be. Yet what I felt for the illusion he gave me—that was real."
"I fault you not, Rowena," Uther said, his tone softening. "And I understand, more than you might believe." He drew a long breath, his massive frame straightening as though he sought to steer the chamber away from grief. "Still, I would hear more of your personal battles during the Siege of Caerleon. Accounts reach me only in fragments—tales carried by others."
His eye shifted, sharp as steel. "Your duel with George Hartshorne…" His gaze lingered on Salazar, who answered with a sly smirk. "Your bout with Barton Geddes…" He turned to Helga, whose amber eyes brightened with pride. "And, of course, your final reckoning with Lamar Burgess." His attention settled at last upon Godric.
A pause. Then Uther's hand moved to stroke his beard. "Which reminds me." His eye flicked to the weapon slung upon Godric's back. "That blade. May I?"
Godric stiffened, crimson eyes flashing wide, but after a heartbeat he nodded. With care, he reached over his shoulder and drew the longsword. The steel sang as it slid from its scabbard of royal blue trimmed in crimson and gold. Holding it with both hands, he stepped forward and presented it hilt-first to the king.
Uther accepted it, the weight settling easily in his grip. His one good eye traced the length of the blade: flawless silver gleaming in the crystal light, the golden crossguard, the gold and royal-blue hilt, and the runes carved with painstaking precision into its steel.
"Extraordinary," he murmured, awe cutting through his usual stoicism. "Never have I seen craftsmanship so refined, so utterly beyond reproach. No artisan alive could have wrought such a marvel." His gaze lifted, pinning Godric with disquieting intensity. "How came you by it?"
"It was a gift, your majesty," Godric answered, though his palms grew damp. "From my uncle."
Uther's eye narrowed, suspicion sharpening its pale blue. "And how, pray, did he acquire it?"
Godric hesitated. "I wish I knew for certain. He told me different stories over the years… but from what I gathered, he claimed it was forged by a famed dwarven smith."
"Hm." The king's frown deepened, unconvinced. He weighed the weapon in his hand for a moment longer, the silence pressing on the five friends like a stone upon their chests. Finally, he nodded. "Whatever its origins, it is a blade beyond compare. A sword fit for a king."
A subtle chill prickled down Godric's spine, mirrored in the unease on his friends' faces.
Then, without ceremony, Uther extended the sword back across his palms. "See that you guard it well."
Godric released a breath he had not realized he was holding as he reclaimed the weapon. "You have my word, your majesty." He slid it back into its scabbard, the hiss of steel meeting leather breaking the tension at last.
"Right," Uther declared, his baritone filling the hall. "You must all be parched. Please." he gestured toward the main doors, "My servants shall escort you to the veranda. I have arranged delicacies gathered from every corner of Avalon. I trust they will be to your liking." He inclined his head with quiet finality.
Helga's amber eyes lit up as she tugged at Jeanne's sleeve. "Did you hear that? From all over Avalon!" she whispered eagerly. "I hope they've got sweets I've never even seen before."
"Well, let's go find out together," Jeanne replied with a small, nervous smile.
Rowena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Always with the sweets. One day, Helga, I swear you'll catch the Sugar Sickness."
"Bah, that's a myth, and you know it," Helga shot back with a grin.
Godric and Salazar both offered a respectful bow before the five turned to follow the waiting servants toward the veranda. Their footsteps echoed away, voices fading into the distance.
****
As the doors closed behind them, Uther's expression hardened once more, the warmth gone as quickly as it had come. Arthur and Artoria instinctively drew closer, flanking their father.
"You saw it as well, didn't you?" Uther said. "The boy's sword."
Artoria inclined her head. "I had my suspicions from the first glimpse all those moons ago. The workmanship, the balance of the hilt, the runes upon the blade, even the scabbard. Its design mirrors Clarent too precisely to be dismissed as chance."
Arthur rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Could Aura and Gil-Galad have forged another in secret? Perhaps a prototype, or a sibling blade?"
"Unlikely," Uther replied, his gaze hardening to steel. "Clarent alone demanded years of toil. Skill, sacrifice, and the strength of two of the greatest blacksmiths who ever lived. They would not have squandered such devotion on a mere experiment. To forge another may not have been beyond their means, but it would have required immeasurable effort… and worse, it would have been an act of betrayal." His jaw tightened. "With the bonds they swore and the oaths they bound themselves to, such a vile trespass would have been unthinkable."
Artoria studied him carefully. "What troubles you, father?"
Uther's gaze drifted toward the empty doors. "Clarent was never a blade of invention, but of remembrance. It was wrought from memory. The closest recreation of the legendary Caliburn itself. And if Clarent is a perfect echo…" His words trailed, his eye narrowing to a thin gleam.
Arthur's eyes widened as the thought struck. "You cannot mean—"
"No," Uther cut him off, shaking his head firmly. "It would be rash to leap to such a conclusion. Still…" His voice lowered to a grave timbre. "We will keep a close watch on the boy. I have no doubt we stand on the cusp of great things."