WHEN ARTHURIA AWOKE, THE WORLD SMELT DIFFERENT. She had expected stone walls, the scent of smoke and death, the ruins of Britannia still fresh in the air. Instead, she was met with silk sheets, the distant murmur of fountains, and the unfamiliar scent of incense and roses filled the air, and the sound of a distant fountain soothed her ears.
She sat up slowly, wincing as pain lanced through her side. Her wounds had been dressed, and the ache was far less than she expected. Her gaze drifted to the bedside table, where a folded letter rested atop a small bouquet of golden roses. Her heart sank as she recognized the bold handwriting.
To Arthuria Pendragon, Your debt is now due. As you so eloquently wrote in your letter, it is a debt you cannot repay. So I will make it simple: Be my wife. Your savior, Gil
Arthuria crumpled the letter in her fist, her cheeks flushing with equal parts embarrassment and rage. She knew immediately she was not in her kingdom. She was in his. Babylonianiyah. She immediately shot up to look out the balcony, it was breathtaking…and the sun was breathing in fresh air combined with the warmth of a mother's touch. Her pulse quickened beneath the rage simmering beneath her skin. Her first thought was to reach for Excalibur.
But it was gone.
In its place, neatly folded on a chair, was a dress—an elegant gown, soft to the touch, flowing, luxurious. A queen's attire. How Revolting, she thought.She may no longer be a king, but she was no one's queen. Her eyes narrowed in disgust once more. Instead, she grabbed the bed sheet, wrapping it around herself like a makeshift robe. It wasn't perfect—it dragged slightly at her feet, the fabric slipping from her shoulders, but it was better than surrendering to his choices.
At least she could deny him this small act of defiance. A refusal to be dressed like a doll in his gilded cage. She stepped out of the chamber, the stone floor not cold like the tiles of her palace, but a soothing warmth beneath her bare feet, turning cold as she hoped she was imagining the snickers from passing the court ladies.
Following the sounds of the palace until she found herself in a grand garden. And there, lounging beneath the shade of a great tree. Was the King of all that unholy himself.
"Gilgamesh!" she hissed.
His gaze flickered toward her the moment she approached, taking in her choice of attire. His lips curled into a smirk. "Creative," he chuckled, amused.
She ignored him and strode forward, stopping just short of where he reclined."What is the meaning of this?"
His eyes glowed with amusement. "You are awake. That's Good."
"Do not avoid the subject—" she hissed. "What is this blasphemy?"She lifted the crumpled letter in her fist and tossed it at him.
It landed on his lap. He raised a single brow. "I sense you're displeased," he asked, mocking curiosity dripping from his tone.
"Displeased?!" she repeated, incredulous. "Try Disturbed! What exactly am I in debt for?!"
He simply tilted his head. "You asked for my help," he said, voice smooth and measured. "And I gave it, did I not?"
Her jaw tightened. "Correct."
"I also saved your life and the lives of your remaining people," he continued, stepping closer, slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment. "Did I not?"
She inhaled sharply through her nose, anger bubbling beneath the surface. "Yes, but—" she bit out.
His gaze darkened with amusement. "Then you would agree the payment is fair. Is it not?"
Her fists clenched at her sides. "It isn't."
His head tilted, as if considering her response like a curious puzzle. "How so?"
Arthuria gritted her teeth as she had no real answer.
"Then why," he continued, standing now, his towering frame casting a long shadow over her, "Do you believe you owe me nothing?"
She stiffened as he closed the distance between them. "You said my debt is due," she said, controlling her breath, controlling her anger."Then let me make my payment."
He raised a brow, intrigued."And how do you intend to do such a thing ?"
"Gold. Name your Price."
A pause. And then—one simple word. "No." He said flatly.
She blinked. "No?!"
"I do not repeat myself. Arthuria"
"That is not a good enough answer!" she growled, gripping the bed sheet tighter.
"The greatest of answers need no defense," he murmured.
"You cannot condemn me here! I am a king!" Her voice cut through the air, strong and unwavering, even as she felt her heart pounding against her ribs.
"Of ashes." He chuckled.
She froze.
"You have no subjects," he continued mercilessly. "No kingdom. No throne. Your title is as irrelevant as your opinion on this matter. I am doing you a Favor."
Her breath hitched, but she refused to look away. The weight of his words coiled around her like chains, tightening with every syllable. For the first time since the battle, the truth pressed down on her. Britannia was gone. No throne, no people, no banners waving proudly in the wind. The Pendragon name was nothing more than a whisper of a legend now. Still, she clenched her fists, unwilling to yield. A favor? A fucking Favor? She reached for the nearest object—a vase—and hurled it at him.
He sidestepped it easily, watching it shatter against the floor. Then he met her gaze. She glared. But to her surprise, he wasn't angry, not even fazed. Tsk," he sighed, "That was a family heirloom."
"Which belongs in hell along with you. It is hideous."
"It was." He agreed.
She let out a frustrated growl, ready to scream something else, until she felt the cool air against her skin. The bed sheet had shifted from the movement, exposing more than she intended. He saw. And he smirked. Her face burned as she quickly yanked the sheet back over herself, stepping away, trying to reclaim some dignity. His smirk only deepened.
"Careful, Arthuria," he murmured, watching her with a glint of amusement. "You might tempt me to take that debt in other ways."
"Go screw yourself ." She whirled around and stormed off. Still hearing his laughter behind her.
For hours, Arthuria had plotted her escape.
She had memorized the layout of the palace, observed the guards' rotations, and mapped out the quickest route to the outer walls. She had even found a possible weak point in the courtyard—he was there alone and unguarded, which meant a passage somewhere nearby that would lead toward the outer grounds. Because what king would be as relaxed as him if there was no escape plan for the worst scenario? Although she couldn't imagine anyone trying in the first place, it was a plan. Not perfect, but a plan nonetheless. By sundown, she would be gone. She would be free.
As the sun began to dip beneath the horizon, she sat near the balcony, her mind racing through every step of her plan. The palace was vast, but she had fought her way through battlefields more treacherous than this. She just needed to wait for the right moment. And then—The door opened. She froze. Her breath caught in her throat as the air in the chamber seemed to shift, the temperature dropping as a presence filled the space behind her.
She didn't need to turn around. She already knew who it was.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, keeping her back to him.
"These are my chambers," came the smooth, unbothered reply.
Her body tensed.
Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes scanning the space once more.
The massive chamber, the ornate furnishings, the golden accents woven into everything—It did look like it belonged to him. Which meant— He had put her here on purpose.
"Where did you sleep last night?"
He smirked, "In my chambers…"
Her fingers curled into fists. "And where do you intend to sleep tonight?"
"In my chambers."
"Unacceptable." She moved toward the door, intending to leave, but—
"Let us come to an arrangement."
Arthuria turned back reluctantly, suspicion flickering in her crimson eyes. He stood near the window now, his gaze on the distant horizon.
"There's a cottage," he said, gesturing toward the meadows beyond the palace. "Not far from here, but far enough, quiet, untouched by war. It's yours, should you want it."
Arthuria narrowed her eyes."Is that going to add to my debt as well?" she asked, voice dry.
The chuckle that followed sent a chill down her spine."If it troubles you so," he murmured, stepping even closer, "We can elope right now."
His voice was a promise, rich and deep, filled with something darkly enticing. "Everything that is mine would be yours for the taking. No debts. Just you and me."
Her pulse stuttered.
His proximity was suffocating, golden warmth pressing against her senses like a slow-moving fire.
She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she turned on her heel."I'd rather die."
He only chuckled; rejection was something far too entertaining. She wouldn't be Arthuria if she didn't fight him every step of the way, and he liked that about her. He liked it far too much. She knew, without looking back, that his eyes were still on her. "Take all the time you need," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. "But remember this—no matter where you go, I will find you."
She froze. He knew. Of course, he knew. She thought about her plans. Her intentions. Every thought she had of escaping—He was already ahead of her. She was not free. He just gave her a window in her prison.
"Enjoy your little sanctuary while you can." His voice dropped to something almost reverent, almost dangerous. "But make no mistake—your place is not hidden away in a cottage." His crimson eyes burned with certainty, a promise that went beyond words.
The cottage was small, warm, and quiet—a stark contrast to the battlefield she had left behind. The scent of fresh wood and earth filled the air, a peaceful nothingness that settled around her like a phantom.
Arthuria stepped inside, her fingers still shaking from exhaustion, from grief, from everything she had refused to feel.
The door closed behind her, the final barrier between her and the world outside.
And then— The weight of it all came crashing down.
She pressed her back against the door, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
The silence was deafening. Too loud, too empty.
Her knights. Gawain. Gareth. Believer. Kay. Her kin. Gone. Their faces flashed in her mind—their laughter, their loyalty, their unwavering belief in her. She had led them to war. And she had lost them all to it.
A tremor ran through her hands as she finally, finally let herself crack. Her knees buckled. She barely caught herself before collapsing, gripping the edge of a wooden chair, her knuckles white.
Her breath came ragged, her chest tightening, and before she could stop it—
A sob ripped from her throat.
Not the dignified, quiet kind she had always forced herself to swallow.
This was raw, broken, violent.
She curled in on herself, shoulders shaking as tears burned down her cheeks, hot and relentless.
When Arturia was small the world was nothing but the cottage and the meadow beyond it. The maid who raised her had hands that smelled of bread and thyme, and a voice that could be gentle or iron. She cut Arturia's hair short the first rainy spring, saying, "Names are small things. You will grow into the one you need to be." She dressed the child in trousers and a coarse shirt and taught her to carry herself without asking for permission.
"Do not ask questions you are not given," the maid warned the way one warns about wolves. "Do not leave the cottage unless I send you. Learn to make yourself smaller in a world that does not forgive loudness." So Arturia learned to make herself small—then filled the spaces with something else: hours of practice, wood against wood, the rhythm of strikes until even her breath kept time with the swing.
She trained the way rivers train stones: patient, relentless. Morning light found her at the post, blade arcing again and again; evening found her hands blistered and steady. There was no council to call her back, no gentle hand to tuck hair behind an ear. Only the maid, a steady presence in the doorway, and the lonely constancy of the sky.
Then, on a morning when the mist lay like a promise over the meadow, a voice like a ship's bell and two bottles rolled over the threshold.
"Well, well," said Merlin, leaning in the doorway, hat at a rakish angle and hair like a storm. "Here I come expecting to find Arthur Pendragon, the son of the king—" He peered at the slim figure at the post. "—is that you?"
Arthuria straightened automatically, wood clattering to the ground. For a breath, she forgot the maid's cautions, forgot her training's careful quiet. She drew herself up the way she had been taught and answered, voice thin but true.
"It is— I— Arthur… Pendragon."
Merlin took a moment, then laughed, "Oh, man." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and tilted his head. "We'll have to fix that, should you wish to fool the kingdom." His eyes softened, then sharpened with something like pity—or calculation. He set his flask down and, for the first time, got suspicious. "Listen up, my liege," he said, "Your father won't be alive for long. A war is coming that will tear the palace to splinters. I thought, at first, it might be your sister's son who would take the throne. But Excalibur has chosen you."
Arturia's breath hitched. The post between her hands felt suddenly too small, like a child's toy in a room meant for men. The maid's face lost whatever calm it wore and went very still.
Merlin stepped closer, lowering his voice until it was almost conspiratorial. "Will you become Arthur Pendragon and forsake your true name?"
It was not a question. The choice seemed to stretch between three people: the king who would die, the dwarf who would keep her secret safe, and a sword that had chosen her.
She swallowed. "I will…" she said at last.
For years, she had been King Arthur. A ruler, a warrior, a leader who never faltered, never yielded. But here, in the dark solitude of a cottage that was not her home, she was just Arthuria. And Arthuria was tired. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows, but she barely heard it. There was no crown to wear here, no sword to wield, no kingdom to command. Just the unbearable weight of all she had lost. So she wept.