By the time they crossed into the Saxon-held hills, spring had broken fully.
Green shot up between the rocks and cliffs, and the air grew heavy with the scent of wet soil and coming storms.
Yet the villages here were quiet, burned out in places, the people wary and thin-eyed.
And everywhere they went now, whispers followed them: The Witch and her Golden Knight. The Witch's War.
Even here, where Britain was bleeding and no one truly believed the land could be held, she saw them glance at her silver hair and Jaune's armor and straighten their spines.
Morgan ignored them, of course.
Or at least… she tried to.
"There are at least a hundred," she murmured, crouched in the brush above a wide valley.
Below, the Saxon camp sprawled like a scar across the grass — fires burning, pikes planted in the earth, banners snapping.
Jaune crouched beside her, expression grim but steady.
"How many can you handle?" he asked.
"All of them, given time," she said flatly. Then added, under her breath, "…but not before the whole hillside burns with me."
"And I suppose leaving is out of the question?"
"Absolutely."
"Of course."
He grinned faintly despite himself.
"Then you just point, Morgan. I'll take care of the rest."
And just like that—just as he always did—he managed to burn the ice in her chest away.
The battle began with thunder.
Her voice split the air, and the sky answered: black clouds gathering in an instant, wind howling through the valley as lightning struck their pikes and fires at once.
Then Jaune charged down the slope, sword blazing with Aura, a streak of white and gold that cut through the chaos like sunrise.
She followed after him—not because she had to, but because she couldn't stand to let him disappear into it alone.
Later, she'd remember flashes:
His hand catching hers mid-spell to steady her when the ground collapsed beneath them.
The sound of his blade clashing against Saxon steel.
The sudden silence when her final invocation swallowed the field in mist and moonlight, leaving only the two of them standing in the quiet wreckage.
She found him at the edge of the valley after, sitting on a stone, head bowed.
His sword lay across his knees, slick with blood.
He didn't look up when she approached.
"…you're hurt."
His voice was low, raw.
"It's nothing," she replied, dismissing the faint burn on her arm.
But he shook his head.
"No. I meant…"
She stopped short when she saw his hands shaking.
Not from pain. Not from exhaustion.
But from what they'd done.
What he'd done.
Jaune Arc, the boy who'd once stumbled over apologies when he killed a Grimm, who still flinched at blood, sat here now with half a dozen Saxon lives on his blade and the weight of it pressing into his shoulders.
And for a moment—just a moment—Morgan hated herself for dragging him this far.
She sat beside him without a word, her skirts pooling between them.
And when he buried his face in his hands, she rested a gloved hand lightly on his back and let him breathe.
When he finally spoke, it was hoarse:
"…Does it ever stop feeling like this?"
She thought of the first time her magic had taken a life.
The smell of ash on her hands.
The silence after.
And she answered honestly:
"No. But you learn how to carry it."
His laugh was bitter, but quiet.
"You make it sound so easy."
"Nothing about it is easy," she said. Then, more softly: "…but you're not carrying it alone, Arc. You never were."
That startled a weak smile out of him.
"Morgan."
"…Yes?"
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. You're still an idiot."
"Yeah. But I'm your idiot, right?"
And damn him—he even managed to make her laugh.
When they reached the next town a few days later, word of the valley had already arrived.
The people poured into the square as they dismounted, and for once even Morgan couldn't silence them:
"The Witch's War! The Wild Hunt rides for us!"
"The Golden Knight stood against a hundred men himself—"
"They drove the Saxons back to the sea!"
She tried to glare them into silence, but it was futile; they cheered all the louder, pressing flowers and bread into Jaune's arms, brushing her cloak as if she could bless them by touch.
And through it all, he smiled awkwardly, muttered thanks, and tried to stay close enough to keep her from being swallowed by the crowd.
That night, when they finally found a quiet barn to sleep in, she sank down against the hayloft wall and groaned.
"This is getting insufferable," she muttered.
Jaune, lying flat on his back nearby, grinned lazily up at the rafters.
"Oh come on. You have to admit, it's nice. Seeing them smile again."
"It's foolish. Hope makes people reckless."
"…Guess you're rubbing off on me, then. I used to think hope was worth it."
That earned him a sharp look, but his eyes were already closed.
And she didn't argue—not because she agreed, but because she didn't trust her voice not to betray her.
It was a few nights after that when they finally received word that Uther had sent riders after them.
A thin-faced boy on a battered horse came up to their campfire just before dawn, too winded to dismount properly, and gasped:
"Pendragon men—close—day behind—maybe less—"
Morgan's hands tightened on her staff before she could stop herself.
She didn't look at Jaune, but she felt his gaze on her.
When the boy left, she stood, brushed down her skirts, and began methodically gathering her things.
"Morgan."
She ignored him.
"Morgan."
Still ignoring.
Then his hand caught her wrist.
She froze, startled, and finally met his eyes.
"What are you planning?" he asked quietly.
"…I'm going to meet them."
His expression hardened.
"On your own?"
"This isn't your fight, Arc. You've already done enough."
"You think I'd let you face them alone after all this?"
"It doesn't matter what you'd let me do," she snapped.
But he didn't flinch.
Didn't even raise his voice.
Just held her gaze and said simply:
"You're not leaving me behind, Morgan. Not now. Not ever."
And damn him—damn him again—for making her heart ache like that.
The Pendragon riders came at dusk.
Thirty men in mail and crimson, lances gleaming, banners snapping.
And at their head, astride a black charger, was a man she knew all too well.
"Merlin," she greeted flatly when he finally drew near.
"My lady," he said smoothly, inclining his head. "You've grown. And caused quite a bit of trouble, as always."
She narrowed her eyes at him.
"I suppose you're here to drag me back to Uther."
"Not quite," he said, smiling faintly. "Merely to give you a choice. Come quietly, and your little rebellion will be forgiven."
"And if I don't?"
"Then the King has ordered me to return his heir by force."
Her knuckles whitened on her staff.
And beside her, Jaune stepped forward.
"She isn't his heir anymore," he said.
Merlin's gaze flicked to him, sharp and calculating.
"Ah. The knight. I wondered about you."
"You don't have to wonder," Jaune said evenly. "You'll have to go through me to get to her."
Merlin chuckled softly.
"Oh, child. You have no idea what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying," Jaune shot back, raising his sword.
"Then so be it," Merlin murmured.
And the air exploded.
Later she'd remember very little of the battle itself — only flashes, sounds, heat.
Jaune's blade flashing in the gloom.
Her own voice rising over the din, ancient words spilling from her lips like wildfire.
Merlin's eyes narrowing as he matched her spell for spell, as though the years of teacher and student had never existed.
And through it all, Jaune at her side — unyielding, unwavering, his breath harsh in his chest but his feet never faltering.
At the end of it, the riders lay scattered or fled, and Merlin sat his horse on the ridge, watching them with a curious expression.
When he finally spoke, it was quiet.
"You've grown, my lady. Perhaps… too much for Uther to leash now."
Then he inclined his head — the barest shadow of a bow — and turned his horse without another word.
When the dust finally settled, and they stood alone on the ridge, Morgan felt something hot sting the corners of her eyes.
She reached up to wipe it away before it could fall — but Jaune caught her hand.
"…What now?" he asked softly.
For once, she didn't have an answer.
So she just looked at him — at the stubborn, infuriating, golden idiot who'd dragged her this far — and murmured:
"…Now we keep walking."
He grinned faintly at that.
"Where to?"
"Anywhere," she said.
"…As long as it's with you?"
She froze at that, eyes widening—then saw the warmth in his, and let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"You really are a fool," she whispered.
But when his hand brushed hers again, she didn't pull away.
Below them, in the town they'd just left behind, children were already chalking a new title into the stones.
The Witch's War. The Golden Knight and the Wild Hunt.
And though she rolled her eyes when she saw it…
She didn't quite manage to hide the faint smile tugging at her lips as he fell into step beside her again.