The dawn after the battle was quiet.
The air still carried the tang of blood and smoke, though the fires had burned low, leaving nothing but faint embers and the scent of wet earth. The cries of the wounded had died down at last, replaced by the low murmur of soldiers stirring in the cold.
Morgan stood atop the ridge overlooking the field, her indigo cloak billowing faintly in the morning wind. Beside her stood Jaune, his armor dented and his sword still sheathed at his side.
Below them, her banner flew over the camp — the wolf and thorn sigil of the Witch Queen, painted hastily onto shields and stitched into torn cloth. Soldiers — her soldiers — moved like ghosts through the camp, collecting the fallen, raising tents, and tending to wounds.
They had won.
And yet Morgan's gaze was distant.
Years ago…
"You shouldn't go alone, Your Highness," Jaune had said that first night, the night she slipped from the castle to flee her marriage.
He had met her by the gate — a single pack slung over his shoulder, his battered breastplate strapped on haphazardly.
"And why not?" she'd shot back, her tone sharp as ever.
His reply had been simple: "Because if you fall, who's going to tell everyone how clever you were?"
She remembered the way she'd stared at him then — half amused, half furious — before finally relenting with a soft huff.
"Very well, farmer. You can carry my pack."
And he had — with a lopsided grin.
Even now, years later, she caught herself glancing at him from the corner of her eye as he stood beside her on the ridge. His hair was longer now, his shoulders broader, but his expression was the same — steady, resolute, infuriatingly calm.
"They'll come again," he said quietly, his gaze on the distant hills where Artoria's army had vanished hours earlier.
"Of course," Morgan replied.
And yet her lips curved faintly at the corner — a hint of pride, bitter but alive.
Because this time, they'd stood.
The camp was alive with whispers when they descended into it. Soldiers bowed as she passed, some lowering their eyes, others daring to look at her outright — at the pale-haired queen who had stood unshaken before Britain's golden heir.
Witch Queen, they called her now.
Witch Queen and Golden Knight.
It was strange, she thought, how quickly names could harden into titles.
Even stranger how they could sting.
Years ago…
The first time they'd faced a Saxon raiding party together had been in a snow-covered valley in the north.
Jaune had insisted on walking point, and she'd let him — amused at his stubborn sense of duty — until the moment his blade buried itself in a man's chest.
She still remembered the sound he'd made after.
Not a cry, not a shout.
Just a quiet, strangled sound, as though the world had cracked around him.
That night he'd sat apart from the fire, hands shaking as he stared down at his sword.
She'd stood there for a long while before finally kneeling beside him, her cloak falling over his shoulders without a word.
He'd looked up at her then, wide-eyed and raw.
And she had murmured the only truth she knew:
"If you can still feel it, Arc… then you're not lost yet."
Her fingers brushed faintly against his arm now as they walked through the camp, a silent echo of that memory.
He glanced at her, and for just a moment, the corners of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile.
By noon, the lords began to arrive.
One by one they came — mounted or on foot, their retainers trailing behind them — summoned by the news of her victory. Some she recognized: the grizzled Earl of Gwynedd, who'd once mocked her for being "just a girl"; the young baron from Dumnonia, whose lands she and Jaune had defended from raiders in the second year of their campaign.
Others were strangers.
And every one of them bowed low before her tent, their voices tight with courtesy.
"Your Majesty," they called her now.
Not witch, not traitor.
Queen.
But Morgan saw the calculation behind their eyes, just as clearly as she felt the weight of the crown they already sought to place upon her head.
Later that evening, she and Jaune sat alone at the edge of the campfire, the light painting his features in gold.
"Do you ever miss it?" he asked suddenly.
She arched an eyebrow.
"Miss what?"
"Before all this." He gestured vaguely toward the tents, the banners, the low hum of the soldiers. "The castle. The gardens. Being Uther's daughter instead of his rival."
Morgan tilted her head back, staring up at the stars for a long moment.
"Sometimes," she admitted.
And she did.
She missed the quiet of the library, the smell of old parchment and candlewax. She missed the wind in her hair on the cliffs above Tintagel, where she and Artoria used to stand as children and watch the waves crash below.
"But then I remember," she added softly, "that he never once saw me as anything more than a bargaining piece. That Merlin —" her lip curled faintly, "— could never look at me without seeing my sister's shadow."
Her eyes flicked toward him then — to the way his hands rested loosely on his knees, the way his gaze was steady and warm.
"And I remember," she finished, "that here, at least, I am mine. And Britain is mine."
Years ago…
They'd been caught in a storm once — rain hammering down as they huddled under the twisted roots of an ancient oak.
Jaune had been shivering so badly she'd finally given up and pressed herself against him, wrapping her arms around his chest without a word.
He'd stiffened at first, then chuckled weakly.
"You're really bad at this comforting thing, you know that?"
And she'd replied — with as much dignity as she could muster —
"Yes, well, you're even worse at staying alive. So we're even."
The memory made her lips twitch faintly now as she glanced at him.
He caught the look and tilted his head in question, but she only shook her head — letting the silence settle comfortably between them again.
That night, she dreamed.
She stood on the cliffs again, wind whipping her hair into her face.
Artoria was there too, smaller than she'd become, her golden hair still tangled from sleep.
"Do you hate me, sister?"
The child's voice carried in the wind, impossibly soft.
Morgan closed her eyes.
"No," she whispered.
"But I can't forgive you either."
She woke to find Jaune standing just outside her tent, staring at the horizon where faint torchlight marked another camp far away.
"You should rest," she said, stepping up beside him.
"Couldn't sleep," he replied simply.
For a while, they just stood there, the silence stretched between them like a thread.
At last he spoke again — quietly, but with that familiar determination.
"You'll win, you know."
"Of course I will," she said, but the faint warmth in her chest betrayed her usual scorn.
"Not just because of magic," he went on, his eyes still on the distant lights. "But because you're… you. You don't break. You never did."
Morgan studied him for a long time before answering.
"I do break, Arc," she said softly.
And before he could protest, she added:
"But you put me back together. Every time."
They stayed like that for hours — two silhouettes against the dawn — until at last the sun rose, and with it came the new day.
When the next messenger arrived, breathless and pale-faced, Morgan already knew what he would say.
Artoria was moving again.
Her forces had regrouped and begun their march south, no doubt planning to strike before Morgan could consolidate her new power.
Her council gathered swiftly in the command tent, voices rising in argument over where to position their troops next, how to fortify the hills.
But through it all, Morgan only listened quietly — her eyes fixed on the map of Britain before her.
At length, she stood, silencing the room with a gesture.
"We meet them at Caerleon," she announced. "We finish this before the snows come."
There were murmurs — some of approval, some of fear — but none dared contradict her outright.
And when her gaze met Jaune's across the tent, he only nodded — no words needed.
Years ago…
They'd passed through Caerleon once before — before she was the Witch Queen, before he was the Golden Knight.
The market square had been bustling, children weaving through the stalls, bright ribbons fluttering overhead.
She'd laughed at something he'd said — truly laughed — and his breath had caught at the sound.
Later that night, he'd caught her sitting alone on a stone wall, her feet swinging idly above the grass.
"What are you thinking about?" he'd asked.
And she'd answered — with a rare softness —
"If I could stay here forever, maybe I'd forget what's waiting for me back home."
And he'd smiled at her then — just a little — and said:
"Then maybe I'll just have to keep you here."
She remembered that now as she studied the map, her finger tracing the road to Caerleon.
And she wondered — with a pang she couldn't name — if some part of her still wished he would.
That night, the soldiers chanted their names again —
Witch Queen!
Golden Knight!
—until the stars faded above them and the fires burned down to ash.
And though she would never admit it aloud, Morgan felt herself standing taller with each voice that joined the chorus — and with each quiet glance Jaune stole at her between the shadows.
Tomorrow, they would march again.
Tomorrow, she would face her sister again.
But tonight — in the quiet between battles — she allowed herself to hope.
Hope that perhaps, when all was done, she would still have more than just her crown.
That she would still have this.
Him.