The morning after the battle, Morgan woke to silence.
Not the usual silence of dawn, with a sleepy camp and the distant call of birds.
No — this was a heavy, expectant hush.
When she sat up in her tent, she found the flap already tied back, letting in the pale grey light of dawn.
And there he was.
Jaune.
Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, still wearing the dented breastplate from yesterday's fight.
Watching her.
"You should be resting," she told him coolly.
He smiled faintly, his blue eyes darker than usual under the morning shadows.
"Could say the same for you, Witch Queen."
She scowled.
"Don't call me that."
But she didn't really mean it, and they both knew it.
By midmorning, the messengers started arriving.
One from a coastal lord pledging his men.
One from a hill clan offering tribute if they'd drive out the Saxons from their valley next.
Even one from the old druids in the western woods, bearing a cryptic blessing and a basket of fox pelts.
Jaune watched her field them all with a kind of quiet awe.
She sat on a carved chair outside the fort — her "throne," the villagers had started calling it — and listened with icy grace to each petition.
Nodding here, dismissing there, asking sharp questions no one expected from a sheltered Pendragon daughter.
But when the messengers left and it was just the two of them again, she sagged back in the chair and groaned softly, rubbing her temples.
"They're like flies," she muttered. "Buzzing, buzzing, all of them."
Jaune crouched beside her and reached for her hand before he thought better of it.
Instead he cleared his throat and said lightly:
"You were incredible."
She cracked one eye open at him.
"Flattery doesn't suit you, Arc."
He only grinned.
"Doesn't mean it isn't true."
That night, the villagers held another feast in their honor.
Morgan hated it.
Or… at least, she told herself she hated it.
It was loud, chaotic, and full of people trying to get too close.
Girls kept slipping toward Jaune with cups of mead and shy smiles.
He handled it with his usual awkward charm — politely declining, laughing when they teased him — but her jaw still tightened every time one of them leaned in too far.
Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore.
She rose abruptly, murmured something about air, and slipped out into the darkness.
She found herself in the woods behind the fort, leaning against an oak, staring up at the stars.
And of course he found her there too.
"You're brooding," he said softly, coming to stand beside her.
"I'm thinking," she corrected.
"Ah. Is that what you call it when you scowl at trees?"
She shot him a glare.
But there was no real heat in it.
After a long silence, she asked quietly:
"Do you regret it?"
That seemed to catch him off guard.
"Regret… what?"
She gestured vaguely toward the fort.
"Running. Staying. Fighting. This whole ridiculous… charade."
He studied her for a moment, then shook his head.
"Not for a second."
When she didn't answer, he leaned back against the tree beside her and added, more gently:
"Do you?"
Morgan stared at the ground for a long time before finally whispering:
"…No."
The next few weeks passed in a blur.
They moved from village to village, pushing the Saxons back mile by mile.
Morgan unleashed storms and fire on their camps, broke their leaders with a word.
Jaune drilled the farmers into something like soldiers, leading them into each skirmish with unshakable resolve.
And at night, when the fighting was done, they would sit together by the fire — she with her spells, he with his sword — and pretend, for a little while, that they weren't the Witch Queen and the Golden Knight at all.
But the victories came at a cost.
Every fight grew harder.
Every camp they captured revealed more of the Saxons' strength gathering just beyond the horizon.
One night, as they camped in the ruins of a burned-out watchtower, Jaune returned late — his cloak torn, his knuckles bloody.
She rose from her seat as soon as she saw him.
"What happened?" she demanded.
He tried to wave her off.
"Nothing. Patrol ran into a raiding party. Took care of it."
But she caught his wrist and pulled his hand into the light.
"You're bleeding."
He gave her a lopsided smile.
"You should see the other guys."
Something in her chest twisted.
And before she could think better of it, she reached up — slowly, carefully — and brushed his hair back from his forehead.
"You can't keep doing this," she murmured.
He blinked at her.
"Doing what?"
"Throwing yourself in front of everyone else," she snapped. "Acting like your life doesn't matter as long as the rest of them live. Like—"
Her voice cracked, and she stopped abruptly, pulling her hand back as though burned.
He caught it before she could retreat.
"Morgan," he said softly.
And for once, she didn't have an answer.
It was another messenger who broke the fragile calm.
This one came from Merlin himself — or so the seal claimed.
Morgan broke the wax with shaking fingers and read the parchment by the firelight while Jaune watched in silence.
When she was done, she let it drop into the flames.
"What did he say?" Jaune asked quietly.
She stared into the fire for a long moment before answering.
"…Uther's dead."
Jaune stiffened.
"Artoria?"
"Crowned," she said bitterly. "High King of Britain. All nice and proper."
Her hands tightened into fists.
"And she's sending an army north," Morgan added flatly. "To… reclaim the lands we've liberated from the Saxons. And bring me back."
Jaune was quiet for a long moment.
Then he reached across the fire and took her hand.
"We'll figure it out," he said simply.
She didn't pull away.
When the Saxons finally made their move, it was with everything they had left.
They came at dusk, black banners blotting out the setting sun.
Thousands of them.
And for the first time, even she felt a flicker of doubt.
Jaune found her at the wall before the battle.
He didn't say anything — just stood beside her, his cloak snapping in the wind.
After a long silence, she finally asked:
"…What if we lose?"
He glanced at her, a faint smile on his lips.
"Then we make sure they remember who we were."
The battle that night was like nothing before.
Morgan stood at the highest point of the fortress, her staff raised, her hair whipping wildly around her face as she called down lightning and fire.
Jaune was everywhere — his blade flashing gold in the torchlight, shouting orders, rallying the line whenever it wavered.
And when the Saxons finally broke, fleeing into the darkness, the roar of their people was deafening.
Later — much later — she found him outside the walls again, leaning on his sword, watching the stars.
"You're brooding," she teased weakly.
"I'm thinking," he shot back with a tired grin.
She smiled faintly and moved to stand beside him.
For a long moment they said nothing — just watched the stars wheel overhead.
Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet:
"We can't stay here forever."
He nodded slowly.
"I know."
"If Artoria marches north, we'll have to decide."
"I know."
She glanced at him then, catching the faint sadness in his eyes.
"…And what do you want, Arc?"
He looked at her for a long moment — longer than she expected.
And then he smiled.
"I want what you want, Witch Queen."
She rolled her eyes — but couldn't stop the warmth that bloomed in her chest.
"Idiot," she murmured.
But she didn't pull away when he reached for her hand.
And when she rested her head on his shoulder — just for a moment — he didn't move away either.
Below them, the village still burned with torchlight.
Their people — the ones who called her Queen and him Knight — sang late into the night:
"Witch Queen & Golden Knight,
Stand where Britain turns to fight.
Crownless, yet the land's delight —
Side by side, side by side."
And though she'd never say it aloud, not even to him…
Morgan found she didn't mind the sound of it anymore.