The men in our own group weren't spared either; their voices, too, were in the mix. Manon tried her best to send her brother signals with her eyes to make him say something to fix things, because he had just called someone else beautiful in front of his crush. Yet he remained transfixed on the figure on the stage.
Mordred was giving Lancelot the stink eye, looking at him like he was the lowest filth.
It was at this moment that I noticed something—or rather, paid it any mind. As I once again scanned the crowd, I fully realized that Mordred, Manon, and I were the only women in the gathering.
It was unimportant, just something small I had paid no notice to. After all, weren't most bad guys men? Yet I also knew that wasn't true. Selene Gallio had been a woman, and she was as vile as they came. She, too, had women working under her. While there were more male villains overall, not everyone working under Selene and Morgana should have been male.
Clearly, someone had made sure to summon only the men.
And the reason for that wasn't hard to guess.
She was, in fact, right up there under the spotlight: the Enchantress, the Asgardian Amora.
A legendary figure, skilled at using magic to charm men. Yet as she twisted their minds and hearts around her fingers, she too couldn't help but open her heart and fall in love with them.
Often, over the ages, it was due to her falling for her very victims that her plots were foiled time and again. By Asgardian standards, she was likely little more than a quirky annoyance, much like Loki himself. Both just fooled around, but never caused enough damage to be taken seriously.
Yet she was not weak. Her charm magic was strong. It had zero effect on women, yet against men? Even Lancelot was charmed—which just went to show that, beyond humanity, the Asgardians were dangerous.
So far, my knights had faced few threats they couldn't handle. Even Selene Gallio, while strong, would have fallen before Mordred and Lancelot. Sure, if not for me and my absolutely broken divine stats, the fight against either of them would have been intense. Her magic was beyond what their magic resistance could have fully negated. But in the end, she still would have fallen before their Noble Phantasms.
Among humans, it was rare to find someone who could stand up against a heroic spirit. Yet in the realm of the gods, that wasn't the case at all. Even if the gods of the Marvel universe were less than the gods of Fate, they still stood far beyond mortals.
"So, who is this loser?" Mordred finally asked once she got over the surprise of seeing every man in the room suddenly lust after this random woman.
"It's an Asgardian, and someone skilled in magic. What is she doing here? I can't say, but she is much like Merlin: trouble, but not dangerous," I answered as I looked at the woman basking in the love and admiration of the charmed crowd.
Mordred snorted. "She doesn't look like Merlin. At least that bastard had the decency to dress like a clown. This one's just showing off."
Her voice was loud enough that I had to resist pinching the bridge of my nose. Even if Amora couldn't pierce my magecraft veil, drawing attention with Mordred's blunt commentary was still dangerous.
"Quiet," I warned. "She's not harmless. Not to them, at least."
Amora let the applause wash over her, her smile blooming like a flower opening to the sun. She looked less like a commander addressing loyal subordinates and more like a singer stepping onto the stage to serenade an adoring audience.
"My darlings," she cooed, her voice a caress, her hands reaching out as though to embrace every man in the hall. "Do not tremble at shadows. France has not lost her guardian. You have not lost your guide. Where there is fear, I will bring you comfort. Where there is despair, I will kindle hope."
She moved as though gliding, her golden hair catching the chandelier light. Dozens of men leaned forward unconsciously, drinking her in, pupils dilated, faces slack with longing.
"I kinda get it, but also, she isn't like Merlin at all. It's strange," Mordred muttered. "But I still want to smash her face in!"
"I won't allow you to lay a hand on Lady Amora!"
The voice of Lancelot came, clear and strong. With sword in hand, he turned his blade toward Mordred to defend the honor of the Asgardian Enchantress.
"You wanna go!?" Mordred wasted no time pulling her gun, glaring at him, her gaze begging for a reason to fight.
"What's wrong with them?" Manon asked, worried for her brother, who was clearly not acting normally.
Maxime, for his part, was frozen—half rising as if to defend Mordred, half caught in the same glow as the rest of the men. His lips moved soundlessly, torn between devotion to his sister and devotion to the goddess on stage.
"Brother," Manon hissed, her fingers tightening around his wrist, "snap out of it! She's in your head!"
Amora's laughter chimed like silver bells, carrying effortlessly across the hall.
She had noticed the commotion, and it shattered the magic hiding us, allowing her to notice our group. Which meant she noticed Lancelot.
Amora was a woman who fell in love easily. And who could resist someone like Lancelot? Strong, handsome, and pure.
Well, pure was relative. He had sinned, and quite badly, unlikely to ever expect heaven. But still, he was rare.
And the Enchantress noticed that right away. She made her way over to inspect her newest lover, her eyes lighting up with joy as she watched him, burning his heroic figure into her gaze.
"Oh, look at you, my dearest darling, aren't you just perfect!" she gushed as she shamelessly allowed herself to be embraced by Lancelot.
Mordred's finger twitched on the trigger. "Oh for—Father, tell me I can shoot her now. Please."
"I doubt it would do much—"
That was all I managed to say before Mordred squeezed the trigger. Poor Amora got shot in the face by superheated plasma.
She went down screaming—far louder than someone dead should be. Even on the ground, she continued whining about her face.
"What? You said it wouldn't do much!" Mordred shot back at the look I gave her.
"Maxime! No!" Manon screamed as her brother jumped at Mordred like a wild beast. And he wasn't alone; everyone suddenly attacked us. The only one who didn't was Lancelot, who was busy being hugged by Amora as she cried about her face.
"Can I shoot them?" Mordred asked as she defended against Fantomex—before he suddenly froze on the spot, then passed out.
"Hey! I swear I didn't do that!" Mordred was quick to defend herself, knowing well enough that he was on our side.
"You can kill the rest, and don't worry, I think EVA got jealous," I reassured her as she started fighting against the rushing crowd of lovestruck villains.
I spared poor Fantomex a glance. Yeah, he never stood a chance. With his own nervous system under EVA's control, one couldn't just fight that.
Instead of paying him more attention, I quickly moved to help Manon. She was struggling to hold her brother back, and I hated to see siblings fight like that, so I intervened.
All it required was a hand on his shoulder. He became unable to do much of anything. His power was useless in his current state, with his emotions under someone else's control. Reduced to just a normal human teen. And against me? Even a thousand of him would have caused no waves.
"Ahhh—thank you. What happened to him?" Manon asked, even more scared for him.
"He'll recover," I assured her, gently lowering Maxime to the floor. "But as long as she's pulling at his heart, he'll be useless in battle."
"Which means we have to end her," Mordred growled, smashing the butt of her weapon into another charging thug's jaw.
Across the hall, Amora had already healed her face—or at least enough that only a faint redness remained, though she was still fussing like a wounded diva. She clung to Lancelot's arm as though he were her knight in shining armor, staring daggers at Mordred.
"You horrid little gremlin!" Amora shrieked, stamping one dainty foot with all the grace of an Asgardian goddess throwing a tantrum. "Do you know how long it takes to maintain this complexion?"
"You'll have forever to worry about it in hell," Mordred shot back, leveling her gun again.
She fired before I had a chance to say a word. This time, Lancelot was ready and used his sword to block the shot.
That action made Mordred take him seriously. Even I no longer remained as relaxed as I had been. Because the sword that blocked the energy shot wasn't one of the high-tech blades I had made for him.
No. It was the gleaming side of Arondight.
"Hey, adulterer… are you really turning that blade against Father again?" Mordred asked, all humor gone, only coldness in her tone.
"I will not allow you to harm Lady Amora. If you wish to harm her, you will have to go through me—her knight!" Lancelot said, leveling Arondight toward Mordred.
"Hey Father… can I kill them?" Mordred asked, dead serious.
The entire mood had changed. Everyone felt it. Even the other fools still under Amora's charm sensed it. They didn't flee, but they no longer attacked.
Amora's hand slid across Lancelot's chestplate, her voice trembling with passion and indignation. "My brave champion, my radiant blade! You see me, you cherish me, while all the world mocks and scorns. How could I not adore you in return?"
Her words made the men around us sigh dreamily—even those bleeding from Mordred's blows. The spell wasn't just binding them to her. It was feeding itself, looping back and forth between their devotion and her own swelling affection.
Lancelot's grip on Arondight tightened. His eyes had that same madness I had seen in Camlann. That desperate need to prove himself through devotion to another cause. My heart sank.
"Mordred," I said quietly, though my voice carried the weight of command. "Stand down."
"No." Mordred didn't so much as twitch her weapon aside. Her jaw clenched, her eyes burned red with anger, her voice a snarl. "Not this time, Father. I won't let him betray you again. Not for some cheap strumpet playing at goddess."
Amora gasped, scandalized, before clinging tighter to Lancelot's arm. "She insults me! She dares! Strike her down, my love. Defend my honor!"
Lancelot's blade rose a fraction higher, steady, unwavering. "I will protect you, Lady Amora."
For a heartbeat, everything froze. Even the charmed crowd seemed to sense the sharpness of the moment, the crackle of something breaking between knight and king.
And then Mordred laughed—low, dark, without joy. "So be it."
She tossed aside her gun and, with a flourish, drew forth her own blade. Clarent appeared in all its glory. "Let's see if Arondight can match my Clarent!"
(End of chapter)
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