The message came at dawn.
This time it wasn't a crumpled parchment from a breathless village boy.
It was a bannered rider on a black destrier, mail gleaming even in the weak northern light.
Morgan stood atop the ramparts of her fortress — their fortress now — and watched him approach.
Her pale hair whipped around her face in the icy wind, but she did not flinch, nor move to meet him.
Instead, she let him sweat under her gaze as he dismounted and knelt in the mud before her.
"Message from the High King," he announced, his voice tight with cold and fear.
She did not speak.
Only extended one gloved hand.
He scrambled to place the sealed letter into her palm, then fled without another word.
Jaune found her in the hall, seated before the fire, the unbroken seal resting in her lap.
"Another love letter from your sister?" he asked wryly.
"Funny," she said, though her tone was flat.
Still she did not open it.
"You're not curious?" he pressed gently.
She gave him a look — that sharp, imperious glare that still made grown men flinch — but to him it was all bark now.
"Of course I'm curious," she muttered, finally breaking the wax.
Her eyes flicked back and forth across the page.
Once.
Twice.
Her hands trembled only a little as she set it down on the table.
"…She wants to meet."
"Your sister?"
"My king," Morgan corrected bitterly. "The High King of Britain."
Jaune raised an eyebrow.
"And?"
She glanced at him, her lips tightening.
"And she commands us to parley. At the border."
"You're going?"
She gave a sharp, humorless laugh.
"Oh, I must. That much isn't a choice."
Her gaze met his then — a glint of challenge in her eyes.
"What happens after, however…"
He grinned faintly.
"That sounds more like you."
The day of the parley dawned cold and bright.
Morgan wore her finest — deep blue velvet lined with fox fur, silver circlet catching the light.
Jaune polished his armor until it gleamed, though a dent or two still marred the breastplate where Saxon blades had kissed it.
When he caught her looking at him before they mounted up, he smirked.
"Do I pass for a knight yet?"
"You'll always look like a farm boy playing dress-up to me," she shot back.
But there was no malice in it, and when he offered his arm to help her into the saddle, she did not refuse.
The journey to the border took two days.
They rode in silence most of the way, but it wasn't the tense silence it once had been.
Now it felt more like an old, comfortable cloak between them.
Once, they stopped by a frozen stream to rest the horses.
Jaune knelt to refill his flask, then looked up to find her watching him — not her usual cool appraisal, but something softer.
"What?" he asked.
"You've… changed," she said after a moment.
"Is that a compliment?"
"That remains to be seen," she sniffed, but her lips curved slightly at the corners.
At last they reached the appointed place — a long meadow at the edge of a half-ruined Roman bridge.
On the far side stood Artoria's camp.
Tall banners whipped in the wind, each one bearing the dragon of Britain.
Knights in white and gold lined the path.
Morgan dismounted slowly, her jaw tight, her gaze fixed on the figure waiting at the center of the bridge.
Her sister.
Even from here, she recognized the girl.
Artoria wore a simple circlet rather than a crown, but there was no mistaking the weight of command in her stance, nor the faint glow of power that seemed to cling to her.
She was everything Morgan remembered — and everything Morgan hated.
"Stay close," she murmured to Jaune.
"Always," he replied.
The meeting was formal, at first.
Words of courtesy were exchanged.
Demands presented, rejected, rephrased.
But beneath it all, the air between the sisters crackled with unspoken history.
At last, Artoria spoke plainly.
"Britain cannot afford division, sister. The Saxons are not yet defeated, and already the clans whisper of rebellion. The people need one throne. One king."
Morgan tilted her head.
"And you presume to be that king?"
"I am that king," Artoria said evenly.
The two locked eyes.
Neither moved.
At last, Morgan's lips curved into a smile that was all teeth.
"Perhaps you are, little sister. But even kings bleed."
That night, back in their own camp, Morgan stood by the fire, arms folded, watching the embers dance.
Jaune came up beside her, silent for a long time.
At last, he asked quietly:
"…What are you going to do?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she stared into the flames, her expression unreadable.
Finally, she said softly:
"When I was a child, I dreamed of being queen. Not for power. Not for glory. But because I thought… if I could wear the crown, I could fix everything."
Her hands tightened on her arms.
"Then she was born. And suddenly I was nothing again. No longer daughter of the land. No longer heir. Just… a piece to be moved, married, discarded."
Her voice cracked just slightly.
"I thought leaving would be enough. Proving myself. Building something of my own. But now…"
She trailed off.
Jaune placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
"You did build something. And it's real. More real than anything they've got down south."
She turned her head then, meeting his gaze.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then she whispered:
"Will you stay? Even if I choose war?"
He squeezed her shoulder.
"I already told you. Wherever you go, I go."
The decision came at dawn.
Morgan stood before her assembled soldiers — farmers and hunters and smiths who now called her queen.
Her cloak flared in the cold wind, her eyes hard as stone.
"Britain calls me traitor," she said, voice carrying over the field.
"Let them. We are not their dogs to be leashed. We have fought. We have bled. We have earned this land. And we will not yield it."
A roar went up from the crowd — wild, fierce, full of defiance.
And when she raised her staff high above her head, lightning cracked across the sky.
Beside her, Jaune unsheathed his sword and lifted it high, golden light catching on the blade.
"Long live the Witch Queen!" someone shouted.
"Long live the Golden Knight!" another echoed.
And soon the field thundered with their names.
"Witch Queen! Golden Knight!"
"Witch Queen! Golden Knight!"
That night, she found him outside the hall, sharpening his sword.
"You're brooding again," she murmured, sitting beside him.
"Thinking," he corrected with a faint smile.
She watched him work for a moment.
Then, softly:
"Doesn't it scare you? That we might lose?"
He paused, then looked up at her.
"Everything worth doing is scary, Morgan."
"Hmph."
She hesitated.
Then, almost shyly, she reached out and placed her hand over his.
"You'll fight at my side?"
He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through hers.
"Always."
When dawn broke the next day, they stood together atop the ramparts as Artoria's army began to appear on the horizon — a great river of steel and banners, rolling northward to meet them.
Morgan's heart hammered in her chest, but she did not look away.
Jaune stood beside her, sword in one hand, the other resting lightly at her back.
"Ready?" he asked quietly.
"I was born ready," she said, though her voice shook just slightly.
He grinned.
"Then let's show them who we are."
And when the horns of war began to sound, their people took up the cry once more, louder than ever before —
"Witch Queen! Golden Knight!"
"Witch Queen! Golden Knight!"
Their voices carried over the wind, even as the two sisters stared each other down across the field — two heirs of Britain, two visions of its future, with everything hanging in the balance.
And as the first arrows loosed and the clash of battle began, Morgan felt something inside her settle, sharp and sure.
Whatever happened next, she would no longer live in anyone's shadow.
She was the Witch Queen.
And at her side — always — was her Golden Knight.