The air was thick with the anticipation of war.
The once-verdant pathways that led to the Fae Realm twisted unnaturally, the shadows curling like smoke beneath the cursed sky. Strange whispers echoed through the mist, but Gilgamesh paid them no heed.
His crimson cloak billowed behind him, the golden armor that encased him gleaming even under the dim, unnatural light.
Behind him, the relentless march of Uruk's soldiers echoed like distant thunder. The King of Uruk did not bring peace.
He brought reckoning.
And at his side, despite everything, walked Bedivere.
The knight's silver armor was tarnished, still stained with the blood from the battlefield.
His left arm trembled from a wound that had yet to fully heal, but he carried himself with purpose.
Even after all that had happened — his betrayal, his failure — he refused to falter.
But Gilgamesh was not blind. He had seen the knight's shame. And he had no patience for it.
"I should kill you for your weakness," Gilgamesh growled, his voice like distant thunder.
Bedivere did not flinch. He had expected no less.
"I deserve no mercy," the knight replied, his tone low but steady. "But I do not ask for it."
Gilgamesh slowed his stride, his crimson eyes narrowing. "Then what do you ask for, knight?"
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Bedivere clenched his fists, his voice trembling, though not with fear.
"A chance to fulfill my duty."
Gilgamesh scoffed. "Your duty?" He sneered, the bitterness in his voice cutting deeper than steel. "Your duty was to protect your king. And you failed."
The accusation burned. But Bedivere did not deny it.
"I failed her," he said softly. "But I will not fail again."
Gilgamesh said nothing. The only sound was the rhythmic march of his army.
But the air between them grew heavier, charged with the weight of what was unsaid.
"I ask for no redemption," Bedivere continued, his voice unyielding. "No forgiveness. Only the right to see this through."
He exhaled sharply, the words spilling like a confession.
"Let me serve her one last time. Let me be her shield — as I should have been. And when it is done, I will take my own life."
The words struck like a blow, but Bedivere did not waver. His gaze met Gilgamesh's, unwavering, resolved.
"Better than dishonor."
Gilgamesh came to an abrupt stop. The army behind them stilled, the silence stretching like an ominous weight.
The golden king's crimson eyes bore into the knight's soul, searching for even a trace of cowardice. But there was none.
Only guilt. And duty.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The mist curled at their feet. The distant hum of dark magic from the Fae Realm loomed ahead, but still, Gilgamesh held the knight's gaze.
Then, at last —
"Arthuria will decide your fate."
Bedivere bowed his head, his jaw clenched tightly.
And with that, Gilgamesh turned forward once more, the piercing glare of his gaze fixed upon the distant shadows of the Fae Kingdom.
There would be no mercy.
Arthuria awoke to the cold bite of stone beneath her skin.
Her body ached, her limbs stiff from being bound in an awkward position for too long.
The air was thick with dampness, the scent of iron and moss clinging to her senses.
She tried to move, but the familiar clank of enchanted chains bound her wrists above her head, pulling her upright against the stone wall.
Her vision was blurred, disoriented, but one thing was clear—she was stripped bare, her dignity reduced to nothing but a pawn in a war she had no control over.
And before her stood Lancelot.
Her knight. Her betrayer.
He watched her from behind the iron bars of her cell, clad in the gleaming armor that once symbolized loyalty to Britannia.
But now, it was nothing more than a hollow facade.
Arthuria sat against the far wall, her wrists chained to the stone, the bitter taste of her blood lingering on her lips.
She had stopped struggling long ago.
There was no point. The magic that seeped through this cursed place left her weak, trembling.
But her spirit — that would never break.
"Why?" Her voice was low, hoarse from exhaustion. Yet the single word echoed with the force of a thousand unanswered questions.
Lancelot did not flinch. His face, once so noble and proud, remained unreadable. But something flickered behind his eyes.
Guilt.
"What father wouldn't?"
The words struck her harder than any blow.
Arthuria stared at him, the cold truth settling in her chest like ice.
She had long suspected that Mordred was not the child of Morguna's late husband.
The whispers had followed him through the years — the resemblance, the bond, the way Lancelot had always stood too close.
But to hear it spoken aloud…
"Mordred." Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "He was yours."
Lancelot didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The weight of his silence confirmed everything.
"You were my knight," she rasped, her chains rattling as she shifted. "You swore an oath to Britannia. To me."
His jaw clenched. "And you swore to protect the people. You swore to lead — but you led us to ruin."
Her breath caught.
"Morguna made you believe that."
"Morguna opened my eyes," he countered, his voice low. "You condemned Mordred the moment he was born. You condemned us all by clinging to a throne that was never meant to be yours."
His words twisted like a dagger in her chest. But before she could respond, the air shifted.
A pulse of magic. Dark. Overwhelming.
Lancelot stiffened, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. From the shadows beyond the cell, the sound of footsteps echoed. A figure emerged — pale, tall, draped in flowing robes of silver and blue.
The Fae King.
His presence commanded the air itself, the very walls of the prison trembling beneath his power.
His violet eyes gleamed with amusement as he regarded Arthuria, like a hunter admiring his prey.
"It's time."
The words were simple. Final.
Lancelot nodded without a word, his face hardening once more.
He pulled the heavy iron key from his belt, unlocking the cell with a deafening clang.
The door creaked open, and without hesitation, he stepped forward, yanking Arthuria to her feet.
Her knees buckled, the weight of the chains dragging her down. But she did not beg.
She did not plead.
She met Lancelot's gaze with cold defiance, even as he pulled her from the darkness of the cell.
The temple was ancient.
Its walls were carved from glistening marble, lined with silver vines that pulsed with living magic.
Crystals floated in the air like stars, casting an ethereal glow that made the fairies who gathered around appear even more otherworldly.
They whispered as Arthuria was brought before the altar. Wide, curious eyes watched the so-called Lion of Britannia — the king who had defied fate for far too long.
At the heart of the temple, a massive stone altar awaited. Its surface was etched with runes, glowing faintly as the ritual's magic stirred.
And there, standing at the head of it all, was Morguna.
She wore no crown, no royal garb — only a dark, flowing cloak that clung to her like shadows. Her emerald eyes gleamed with triumph.
"Finally." Her voice dripped with satisfaction.
Arthuria was dragged forward, her legs trembling beneath her. The weight of the chains grew unbearable, but she did not fall. Not yet.
The Fae King stepped closer, his cold gaze never leaving her.
"The last of the Pendragon line," he murmured, reaching out a pale hand to brush against her cheek. "And within you, the final fragment of Avalon. The core."
She recoiled at his touch, but the magic that bound her prevented any real defiance.
"Do not struggle, little lion." His smile widened. "It will only make it worse."
Arthuria's heart hammered against her ribs, her body tense as Morguna approached.
The woman's hands, long and slender, reached out, grasping Arthuria's ankles with a strength that belied her graceful demeanor.
With a swift, practiced motion, Morguna lifted Arthuria's legs, spreading them wide, exposing her most intimate place to the cool air and the gaze of the man who stood at the head of the altar.
The King, a figure of power and authority, his presence commanding respect, stepped forward.
His eyes, a deep, piercing blue, fixed on Arthuria, his expression unreadable.
The weight of his crown, resting on a nearby table, seemed to press down on the very air.
Arthuria's breath hitched as the King's gaze lingered on her, his eyes tracing the lines of her body, bound and vulnerable.
She felt a nauseating feeling creep up her throat.
The King's hand, large and calloused, reached out, his fingers brushing against her inner thigh, sending a shiver through her.
She squirmed, the ropes chains into her skin, a reminder of her helplessness.
His touch was not gentle, almost needy, as he traced a path up her leg, his fingers hovering just above the junction of her thighs.
"Keep her still," he murmured.
Morguna's hands tightened.
The King's fingers, warm and insistent, pressed against her, his touch sending a jolt of sickness through her.
She gasped, her body arching slightly, but the chains held her firm.
With deliberate slowness, the King slid a single finger inside her, his touch probing, exploring.
Her breath caught in her throat. She squirmed, the sensation overwhelming.
"Shh," the King soothed, his voice a whisper against her thigh. "It's alright, you're doing well."
"Shut the fuck up!"
His words did little to calm the storm raging within her. The King's finger moved, slow and steady, his touch sending waves of sensation crashing over her.
She moaned, a soft, involuntary sound, her body responding despite her fear.
He added a second finger, his touch deepening, stretching her.
She whimpered, her breath coming in short gasps, her body on the brink of something she couldn't name.
And she hated the fact that her body was betraying her mind.
That was the sick part.
"It's almost over, " Morguna's voice cut through the haze, her tone sharp.
The King's fingers continued their relentless dance, his touch sending Arthuria spiraling into a maelstrom of sensation. She cried out, her body arching, the ropes biting into her skin as she struggled against the onslaught of pleasure.
Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, the King pushed deeper, his fingers breaking through the barrier that had kept her untouched.
Arthuria's cry echoed through the chamber, a mix of pain and something else—a release that left her trembling.
The King withdrew his hand, his fingers glistening with her essence.
He raised them to his lips, his tongue flicking out to taste her.
"You are correct, Morguna," he murmured, his eyes never leaving Arthuria's. "She is pure."
"Was."
Arthuria lay still, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The chamber seemed to spin around her, the torches blurring as she tried to process what had just happened. The Fae King raised his left hand — and in it, a glowing fragment pulsed.
A piece of his own heart, blackened with centuries of power.
As he gave it to Morguna, he said
" A deal is a deal."
In his right hand, he reached toward Artuia's chest, the air vibrating with energy.
"But first …"
The moment his hand brushed against her, Arthuria screamed.
The pain was instant. Agonizing. Like fire and ice tearing through her veins.
The core within her — the ancient power of Avalon — twisted and recoiled, resisting his pull. She thrashed beneath his touch, her cries echoing through the temple.
The Fae King gritted his teeth, straining as the golden light of the core began to emerge, flickering like flame.
It hovered just beyond her chest —Then he let go.
'So this is the power of Avalon…"
But then —
The world shook.
The temple trembled, the ancient vines curling away as if in fear. The fairies scattered, their cries of alarm ringing through the air.
And a guard burst through the great doors, his wings trembling.
"My king!" he gasped. "There is a man!"
The Fae King did not lower his hand.
"What man?"
"He's destroying everything."
A pulse of dread flickered through the chamber.
Morguna snarled, her fury mounting. She turned on her heel, the dark fabric of her cloak swirling behind her.
"Who dares?"
But even as the words left her lips, the answer was clear.
Gilgamesh.
The King of Uruk had come. And with him, the wrath of the heavens.
Before Arthuria could reply, the distant clang of metal and the sharp cries of fae soldiers filled the air.
The dungeon trembled as something—or someone—tore through the palace above. The sound of an explosion echoed through the stone halls, sending dust raining from the ceiling.
The Fae King stilled, his amusement vanishing in an instant.
"Well," he sighed, rolling his shoulders. "It seems your husband has arrived."
Arthuria bared her teeth, breathing heavily. "He's not my husband," she snapped, though the words felt weak even to her ears. "But he will kill you."
The Fae King laughed softly, shaking his head
"He can certainly try.".
As he reached for the dagger at his waist, the blade glinted in the dim torchlight. Amused by her defiance.
"Pause the ritual," the king commanded coldly.
The temple guards stiffened but obeyed without question.
Morguna, standing at his side, seethed with barely restrained fury.
Her lips curled into a snarl, the emerald glow of her magic still crackling faintly around her fingers.
"I will lend a hand in this," she hissed, her eyes burning with malice. "Lancelot, guard her. Make sure she doesn't leave this chamber."
The knight said nothing. But his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened.
The Fae King's presence lingered only a moment longer, his gaze flicking once more toward Arthuria, as though savoring the sight of his nearly claimed prize.
Then, without another word, he and Morguna disappeared through the temple doors, their forms swallowed by the violet mist that trailed behind them.
The sound of the battle roared louder.
Arthuria slumped against the altar, her chest heaving as she struggled to steady her breath. But even as the pain faded, her thoughts remained sharp.
She was still alive.
"It's not too late to do the right thing," Arthuria said, her voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, he didn't respond. The flicker of guilt she had seen before was gone, replaced by the steel resolve of a man who had convinced himself there was no other path.
"This is the right thing," he growled. "Mordred will live. Justice will be served."
She searched his face, desperate for any trace of the knight she once knew — the knight who had fought by her side, sworn oaths to her name.
"And what of Britannia?"
"You were my king," he said, his voice strained. "But my son was my blood."
Her heart twisted.
"And what will you tell him when he wakes?" she rasped. "That you damned his soul for vengeance? That you betrayed the only kingdom that could have been his?"
He did not answer.
Because the truth had no comfort.