The morning sky was split by the banners of two kings.
On the southern ridge stood Artoria's host — gleaming and disciplined, white and gold banners snapping in the wind, her knights lined in perfect columns. The sound of their march shook the earth: heavy, relentless, like an inevitable tide.
On the northern ridge, beneath the cracked stones of the old Roman fort, Morgan's army stood in darker hues — wolf pelts, mismatched shields, bronze and steel dulled by long use. But where Artoria's force was quiet and ordered, Morgan's bristled with feral energy, a hundred throats roaring her name already before the horns blew.
At their head stood the Witch Queen, clad in indigo and silver, her staff raised toward the heavens. And at her side, as ever, the Golden Knight — sword drawn, armor gleaming in the pale light, eyes steady on the horizon.
Jaune's hands flexed around the grip of his blade. Even now — after all they had fought through together — he still felt that old familiar weight settle in his stomach as he looked at the army opposite them.
"They look like they're twice our number," he muttered.
"Perhaps," Morgan replied coolly. "But I only need half that number to win."
He grinned despite himself.
"There's that arrogance again."
"Confidence," she corrected, her lip curling faintly. Then, more softly: "Besides… I have you."
Jaune blinked at her, startled by the rare openness in her tone.
Before he could reply, however, the first trumpet sounded.
The field fell silent.
And then the banners lowered, and the battle began.
The clash was chaos.
Artoria's knights advanced in a solid line, shields locked, spears bristling. The front ranks of Morgan's army met them in a wild charge — axes and clubs hammering against steel.
Jaune stayed close to Morgan, his blade flashing as he cut down the first knight that reached them. The man fell with a gasp, and for a split second Jaune froze — that old ache twisting in his chest again — but then Morgan's sharp voice snapped him out of it.
"Focus!" she barked, staff whirling to strike another down in a burst of lightning.
He nodded, teeth clenched, and moved to guard her back as she began her spellwork.
The air around her shimmered with raw magic — blue arcs crackling from her fingertips into the enemy ranks, hurling men from their saddles. At one point she raised her staff high and the earth itself split open, swallowing a line of armored cavalry before they could reach her front line.
But even Morgan's magic could not be everywhere at once.
From the enemy camp, a group of Artoria's elite knights broke through, led by a man clad in white and red, his sword burning with holy light.
Jaune recognized him even before he raised his blade.
"Sir Gawain," Morgan spat. "Her favored hound."
"Go," Jaune said simply, stepping forward and raising his own sword. "I'll hold them here."
Her head snapped toward him, a protest rising in her throat — but when she saw his eyes, steady and calm, she only gave the faintest nod.
And then she was gone, disappearing into the melee toward another knot of resistance.
Jaune's duel with Gawain was brutal.
The knight struck like a hammer, each blow driving Jaune back step by step. Sparks showered as steel met steel, and for a moment Jaune was sure his arms would give out under the onslaught.
But he held.
Every time Gawain's blade came down, Jaune's Aura flared — that stubborn, glowing shield of soul and will — and he forced himself to counter, slipping past the knight's guard to leave shallow cuts on his opponent's side and arm.
By the fifth exchange, Gawain's strikes were slower, his breath ragged.
And Jaune saw his opening.
With a roar he feinted low, then brought his sword around in a high arc — the flat of his blade slamming into Gawain's helm and sending him sprawling into the mud.
He stood over him for a heartbeat, chest heaving — then turned away, already searching for Morgan.
Elsewhere, Morgan cut her way through the field like a storm given flesh.
Knights fell before her lightning, her illusions leading them into traps, her voice echoing through their minds with whispers that made their resolve falter.
But it was not enough.
Even she could see the tide beginning to turn — Artoria's disciplined ranks slowly pressing her forces back, foot by foot.
And then she saw her sister.
At the center of the field, Artoria cut through Morgan's bannermen like wheat, her sword blazing with a golden light that hurt to look at.
Morgan's lips curled back in a snarl.
"Enough."
She strode toward her sister, magic gathering at her fingertips.
They met in the center of the carnage — two daughters of Uther Pendragon, two heirs of Britain, face to face at last.
Artoria's armor was dented, her crown gone, but her grip on her blade was unshaken.
Morgan's gown was torn, her staff cracked, but her eyes burned brighter than ever.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Artoria raised her sword.
"Yield, Morgan. You've fought well, but this ends here."
Morgan only laughed — sharp, bitter.
"Oh, little sister. It hasn't even begun."
And then their duel began.
Magic and steel clashed in a furious dance.
Artoria's strikes were swift, precise, powered by something deep and ancient. But Morgan was no less fierce — her spells twisting around the blows, her staff lashing out in return.
Once, Artoria's blade caught her shoulder, cutting through fabric to bite flesh.
Once, Morgan's lightning sent her sister sprawling to one knee.
But neither fell.
Around them, the battle seemed to pause — both armies watching as the two women fought, the fate of Britain balanced on the edge of their blades.
And then —
Jaune arrived.
Seeing Morgan falter under one of Artoria's strikes, he threw himself into the fray without hesitation, intercepting the next blow and shoving the king back.
"You're late," Morgan panted.
"Got caught up," he replied grimly, keeping his blade between them and Artoria.
"This is my fight," she hissed.
"Too bad," he shot back, blocking another strike from Artoria. "You're stuck with me."
And so the three of them danced — a chaotic, deadly triangle of power and fury.
At last, Morgan's staff shattered under a particularly vicious strike.
She fell to one knee, breathless, blood running down her arm.
Artoria raised her sword, eyes hard, ready to end it —
But Jaune stepped in front of her again, his blade catching hers with a deafening clang.
For a moment, the two locked eyes — Artoria and the foreign knight — and she hesitated.
And that was all Morgan needed.
With a guttural cry, she summoned the last of her strength, magic crackling along her skin — and released it in a blinding burst that hurled Artoria backward, leaving her stunned and sprawling.
The field fell silent.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Morgan rose, her staff nothing but a broken splinter now, her shoulders squared despite the blood staining her gown.
"This isn't over," she told her sister coldly. "But today… you leave my lands."
Artoria stared up at her, chest heaving, but at last she gave a single, sharp nod — and signaled the retreat.
One by one, her knights withdrew, the white and gold banners disappearing over the ridge.
And when it was done — when the field was theirs — Morgan turned to Jaune, her lips twitching into a faint, exhausted smile.
"You really are a fool," she murmured.
"You're welcome," he replied with a crooked grin, even as he sank to one knee, drained.
She knelt beside him then, surprising even herself — one hand coming to rest lightly on his cheek.
"Stay," she whispered.
"Always," he said.
That night, as their soldiers celebrated around great bonfires, Morgan and Jaune stood at the edge of the camp, overlooking the field of battle.
The stars above were sharp and bright.
Below, the ground still smelled of blood and smoke.
"You've done it," Jaune said quietly.
"For now," she corrected, though her voice was softer than usual.
"And after?"
She glanced at him then — pale hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes reflecting the flames below.
"After," she said slowly, "we make them remember this day. Not as the day Britain crushed her Witch Queen… but as the day her Witch Queen chose to stand."
Her hand found his then, fingers curling through his.
"And you, Golden Knight… will you keep standing with me?"
He squeezed her hand gently, and smiled.
"Always."
And as the two of them stood together on the ridge, watching the fires burn and hearing their names —
Witch Queen!
Golden Knight!
—echo across the night, Morgan felt, for the first time in years, as though the land itself was listening.
And approving.