=== Vivian ===
Far to the south of Camelot, where the waters of a quiet lake lay undisturbed beneath the fading stars, two figures drifted peacefully upon its glass-like surface.
One was a young woman, exhausted beyond measure, her breathing slow and deep as she recovered from the miracle, and agony, of childbirth.
Nestled securely against her chest, wrapped within her gentle embrace, slept a baby boy no more than a few days old, his tiny breaths soft enough to be lost beneath the whisper of the morning breeze.
For a long while, nothing disturbed the tranquil scene.
Then, from the mist that clung to the water’s edge, a third figure emerged.
His footsteps were soundless as he approached, the lake itself seeming unwilling to betray his presence.
He lowered himself beside the sleeping mother, watching her for a long, silent moment.
There was sorrow in his eyes as he looked upon her peaceful expression, knowing full well that the peace she now possessed would soon be shattered beyond repair.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though she could not hear him.
With practiced care, he slipped his hands beneath the infant and slowly lifted him from his mother’s embrace.
The moment the child left her arms, the woman stirred, her brow knitting together as instinct reached for what her sleeping mind could not yet understand.
Her arms tightened around empty air before slowly relaxing once more, her breathing evening out as her dream reclaimed her.
The man lingered for only a heartbeat longer, the child now cradled securely in his arms.
Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the gathering dawn, leaving the woman alone upon the lake.
As the first rays of sunlight spilled across the water, she awoke with a weary smile.
Her body ached, but none of it mattered.
The first thing she wished to see was her son.
Her arms closed around nothing.
“…Aegeus?”
Her voice was little more than a whisper as she looked down at the empty space against her chest.
Confusion became unease, and unease became panic, and in an instant she was on her feet, desperately searching the water around her.
“Aegeus!”
Her voice cracked as she spun in every direction, expecting to see him floating safely nearby.
When she found only still water reflecting the morning sky, terror seized her heart.
“No… no…”
Believing the unthinkable, she dove beneath the surface.
Again and again she searched the depths, combing through the crystal-clear water with frantic desperation.
Minutes passed like hours.
When she finally emerged for the last time, her strength spent and hope all but extinguished, the terrible truth settled over her.
Aegeus was gone.
The scream that tore from her throat echoed across the silent lake, raw and broken, carrying with it a grief so profound that even the birds in the surrounding forest took flight.
It was not merely the cry of a woman in despair, but the anguished wail of a mother who had lost her child.
=== Artoria Pendragon — Four Years Later ===
The sharp rhythm of armored boots echoed through the stone corridors of Camelot as a lone messenger hurried toward the great doors of the throne room.
Their immense oak construction, reinforced with black iron and engraved with the Dragon of Camelot, stood nearly three times the height of a man.
Two lines of royal guards watched his approach in perfect silence, their halberds held upright and their polished armor gleaming beneath shafts of sunlight pouring through the high windows.
As the messenger came to a stop before the doors, the guards shifted in unison.
The two stepped forward, planting their boots firmly before pushing against the heavy doors.
With a low groan of ancient hinges, the entrance slowly opened.
Beyond lay the heart of Camelot.
Towering marble pillars stretched toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, their surfaces carved with the deeds of kings long since passed.
Brilliant banners bearing the crimson Dragon of Camelot hung between them, swaying gently in the still air.
A broad crimson carpet ran the length of the great hall, leading to an elevated dais upon which rested the throne itself.
Along either side of the chamber, recessed galleries overlooked the hall, each reserved for one of Camelot’s noble houses whenever the royal court convened.
Though empty now, they gave the chamber an imposing sense of scale, as though countless unseen eyes still watched every soul who entered.
The messenger walked alone across the vast hall, each footstep echoing from stone to stone until he reached the foot of the dais.
There he dropped to one knee, steadying the sword at his hip with one hand so it would not strike against the polished floor.
“My King,” he said, bowing his head.
“We have received word from Sir Lancelot and his scouts. The Warlord and her army have begun moving south.”
Silence settled over the hall.
The figure seated upon the throne remained hidden beneath deep shadow, offering no immediate reply.
Beside the throne stood a robed man with long white hair, who leaned toward the seated monarch and quietly whispered into their ear.
After a brief moment, the King gave a single nod.
“Very well.”
The voice that answered was unnaturally deep, its tone subtly distorted by the enchanted helm concealing the ruler’s identity.
“Lord Merlin has foreseen that a nearby village possesses something of great importance. We will investigate it ourselves.”
The King rose from the throne in one smooth motion.
A gauntleted hand settled upon the scabbard hanging at their side, fastening the sword securely to their waist before descending the steps of the dais.
“Prepare Llamrei.”
The command was spoken without force, yet the entire hall seemed to spring to life around it.
The messenger bowed lower.
“At once, Your Majesty.”
===
Mounting Llamrei in a single practiced motion, Artoria settled into the saddle before surveying the knights assembled before her.
Hundreds of armored riders waited in disciplined silence, their banners fluttering gently in the morning breeze as every eye remained fixed upon their king.
She raised a gauntleted hand.
“Forward.”
The command rang across the courtyard, and as one, the army answered.
Hooves thundered against the stone streets as Camelot’s knights rode from the castle in perfect formation, the discipline of years of training evident in every movement.
The city had already gathered to see them off.
Men, women, and children crowded the cobbled streets, waving banners adorned with the crimson Dragon of Camelot while voices rose together in cheers for their king and the loved ones riding to war beside her.
Flowers rained down upon the passing column, scattering across the roadway beneath iron-shod hooves.
Knights offered reassuring smiles to anxious wives, exchanged final waves with excited children, and saluted aging parents who stood proudly among the crowd.
Whether they returned from this campaign or not, none could say, but for this moment, Camelot celebrated their departure with unwavering faith.
The city’s towering walls slowly disappeared behind them as Llamrei lengthened her stride, breaking into a gallop across the rolling countryside.
The rest of the army followed without hesitation, banners snapping in the wind as they crossed the fertile lands of the kingdom they had sworn to defend.
The journey lasted until the following day.
Long before the village came into view, a thick column of black smoke stained the horizon.
As the army drew nearer, another scent overtook the fresh country air.
The scent of burning timber, flesh, and death.
“Your Majesty.”
Artoria turned toward the nearby treeline as a lone knight emerged from the shadows of the forest atop a black destrier.
Even before his face became visible beneath his helm, she recognized the rider.
“Sir Lancelot,” she greeted, her voice carrying the same unnatural, masculine timbre produced by the enchanted helm.
“Report.”
Lancelot brought his horse alongside Llamrei before lowering his head respectfully.
“My king. We observed the attack from concealment, just as you ordered.”
His gaze drifted toward the smoke rising beyond the trees.
“The village has been destroyed. Every man, woman, and child was put to the sword before the buildings were set ablaze.” His expression darkened.
“One of their mages carried a strange orb. They moved among the dead, drawing what appeared to be white mist from each corpse before departing. I know not what purpose it served.”
He met his king’s gaze once more.
“We did not engage. Our numbers were insufficient.”
“Good.”
Artoria’s answer came without hesitation.
“You followed your orders. Had you attacked, you would have joined the dead. A knight cannot protect Camelot if he throws his life away needlessly.”
Lancelot bowed his head.
“As always, Your Majesty, your judgment was correct.”
Artoria gave a single nod before turning back toward the road ahead.
“Advance.”
The army left the shelter of the trees and rode toward the ruined settlement.
The destruction became clearer with every passing moment.
Homes had collapsed into heaps of blackened timber.
Others still burned fiercely, flames licking hungrily at what little remained of their wooden frames.
Livestock wandered aimlessly between the ruins, their owners lying motionless where they had fallen.
Bodies littered the dirt roads, untouched save for the carrion birds already circling overhead.
“My God…” one of the knights whispered.
“Such savagery…”
Artoria’s jaw tightened beneath her helm.
“Spread out,” she ordered.
“Search every building. If anyone yet lives, we will find them.”
The nearby regiment saluted in unison before breaking formation, disappearing into the burning village in search of survivors.
Artoria guided Llamrei farther into the settlement before bringing the mare to a halt.
Swinging down from the saddle, she rested a gauntleted hand against the horse’s powerful neck, gently stroking the white mare in silent appreciation before releasing the reins.
“Llamrei.”
The faithful horse snorted softly but remained exactly where she stood, awaiting her king’s return.
Artoria turned toward the ruined village and began walking into the smoke.
Leaving Llamrei where she stood, Artoria stepped into the village alone.
The heat of the flames washed over her armor as she walked past the charred remains of her people.
Blackened bodies lay where they had fallen, some still clutching one another even in death.
Homes groaned beneath the weight of the fire consuming them, roofs collapsing in showers of sparks that briefly illuminated the smoke-choked streets before vanishing into the haze.
Though every instinct urged her to search each ruin, there was no movement to be seen.
Only fire.
Only death.
The crackling of burning timber was suddenly interrupted by the violent crash of a splintering door.
A man burst from one of the few houses still standing.
His clothes were stained with soot, his beard singed by the fire, and his eyes were wild with terror.
Clutching a woodcutter’s axe in both hands, he charged the armored king with a desperate cry, more the scream of a frightened animal than that of a man seeking battle.
The axe came down with all the strength he possessed.
Artoria caught the haft in her left hand.
The weapon stopped as though it had struck solid stone.
Before the man could even comprehend what had happened, her right hand shot forward, wrapping around his throat.
She lifted him effortlessly from the ground until his boots dangled helplessly above the dirt.
For a brief moment, they remained frozen like that.
Then Artoria cast him aside.
He struck the ground hard, coughing violently as precious air rushed back into his lungs.
She stepped toward him.
“What happened here?”
The man struggled to answer between ragged breaths, one trembling hand rubbing his bruised throat.
“They… they killed everyone…”
“Who?”
His eyes widened and his lips trembled.
No answer came.
Artoria seized the front of his tunic, hauling him upright.
“Who?”
“A knight!” he cried, the words tumbling over one another.
“A knight in black armor!”
His composure shattered.
“They rode into the village… they butchered everyone they found. My wife…” His voice broke.
“They killed my wife…”
Fresh tears carved clean paths through the soot covering his face.
“They took my children.”
Artoria slowly released her grip.
Her gaze drifted beyond the broken man to the burning village surrounding them.
The Warlord.
There could be little doubt now.
“I…” The villager’s shoulders shook uncontrollably.
“I couldn’t stop them.”
His voice fell to a whisper.
“I hid beneath the floorboards… I listened while they screamed.”
He lowered his head.
“I did nothing.”
Artoria remained silent.
There were no words she could offer that would ease such guilt.
She simply turned and continued deeper into the village, leaving the grieving father to mourn those he had lost.
The destruction only worsened the farther she walked.
The village square had become a charnel ground.
Bodies lay scattered across the blood-soaked earth without order or dignity.
Elderly men had fallen beside women too old to flee, while crippled children lay where they had been struck down without mercy.
Many bore signs of torture before death, their belongings stripped away as though even their final moments had been denied the dignity of peace.
Then Artoria saw the stone.
A large slab stood in the center of the square.
Chained against it was a child.
The boy could not have been more than four years old.
His small body hung limply against the stone, his wrists secured above his head by heavy iron shackles.
His back had been flayed nearly to the bone.
Torn flesh hung in ragged strips, dried blood covering almost every inch of exposed skin.
But it was not the wounds that stole the breath from Artoria’s lungs.
It was the mark burned into his back.
The Dragon of Camelot.
Her crest.
Someone had branded a child with the very symbol she had sworn would protect her people.
Her gauntleted hand slowly curled into a fist.
For the briefest of moments, it trembled.
Behind her, the Knights of the Round Table arrived one by one, each falling silent as they took in the horror before them.
“By the heavens…” Percival whispered.
Lancelot’s jaw tightened beneath his helm.
“There is no mistaking it.”
Artoria’s voice remained steady, though colder than before.
“This was the Warlord’s work.”
A faint sound broke the silence as something moved among the ruin.
“Did… the boy just move?” Lancelot asked.
Artoria was already walking forward when he spoke.
She stepped carefully through the field of corpses until she reached the stone.
As she drew near, she noticed fresh tears tracing pale lines through the soot covering the child’s face.
They dripped silently from his chin onto the bloodstained rock beneath him.
His eyes slowly opened.
Clouded with pain, they struggled to focus before finally settling upon the towering armored figure kneeling beside him.
Artoria immediately gestured for her knights to stay back.
She knelt before him.
“It hurts…”
The words were barely louder than a breath.
His small hands weakly tugged against the chains binding him.
Without a word, Artoria reached up and snapped the iron restraints as though they were little more than brittle twigs.
The boy cried out as his arms fell downward, the movement tearing open the fresh scabs across his back.
Blood immediately began to seep from the reopened wounds.
“It hurts…” The child said as his small voice cracked.
“Please…”
He looked up at the king with tear-filled eyes.
“Make it stop…”
Artoria’s heart clenched.
Sliding one arm beneath his legs and another behind his shoulders, she lifted him as gently as she could.
Even so, he whimpered as his ruined back brushed against her armor.
Instinctively, the child wrapped both arms around her neck with surprising strength, burying his face against her shoulder as quiet sobs shook his tiny body.
Artoria rose to her feet and carried him back through the silent ranks of her knights, who instinctively stepped aside to make way for their king.
“Continue searching,” she ordered without breaking stride.
“Leave no building unchecked.”
The knights saluted and dispersed immediately.
Artoria carried the boy toward one of Camelot’s court mages, who was already preparing her healing magic.
“Come here, little one.”
One of the court mages stepped forward, extending her hands toward the child with a gentle smile.
“You’ll be safe. Let me help you.”
The boy only buried his face deeper into Artoria’s shoulder.
His small arms tightened around her neck until his knuckles turned white.
Artoria rested a gauntleted hand against the back of his head.
“She means to help you,” she said softly, the enchantment upon her helm lending even those reassuring words their unnatural masculine tone.
“You needn’t be afraid.”
The child did not answer.
He simply clung to her all the tighter.
Artoria looked to the mage.
“He will not let go. Treat him as he is.”
The woman bowed.
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
She placed both hands near the child’s ruined back, golden light blooming between her fingers as healing magecraft flowed into the broken flesh.
Almost immediately, her brow furrowed.
The spell simply…
vanished.
She frowned before trying again, this time with greater concentration.
Again, nothing.
The wounds remained exactly as they were.
“My lord…” she murmured.
She withdrew her hands and frowned thoughtfully before reaching for the small knife hanging from her belt.
Drawing its edge lightly across her fingertip, she winced as a bead of crimson welled from the shallow cut.
Without changing the spell, she cast the healing magecraft upon herself.
The cut closed instantly.
Her confusion only deepened.
“I don’t understand…”
She looked between her healed finger and the child.
“My magecraft functions normally.”
Carefully, she tried one final time.
Golden light enveloped the boy’s back before dissolving into nothing as though it had never existed.
The mage slowly lowered her hands.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” She shook her head.
“I cannot heal him.”
Silence settled over the gathered knights.
Artoria studied the child for a long moment before speaking.
“Bring me a chair.”
Within moments, one was carried from the remains of a nearby home.
Artoria sat, settling the boy carefully upon her lap without forcing him to release his grip.
“We’ll do this the old way,” she said.
The healer gave a solemn nod before preparing clean cloth, water, and her surgical tools.
Artoria leaned close to the child.
“This will hurt. Hang onto me.”
He looked at her with frightened, tear-filled eyes.
She gently rested a hand against the back of his head as his arms tightened around her neck.
The healer began.
The first touch of wet cloth against his torn back drew a sharp gasp from the boy.
As dried blood was washed away, he trembled violently, soft whimpers escaping despite every obvious effort to remain quiet.
The healer worked with painstaking care, trimming away strips of dead flesh that could not be left to fester before repeatedly rinsing the wounds clean.
Each time the blade touched him, the child’s fingers tightened instinctively.
Artoria remained perfectly still.
Only the increasing pressure around her neck betrayed just how much pain he was enduring.
For someone so small… He was astonishingly strong.
His grip tightened again as another strip of ruined flesh was removed.
For the briefest moment, Artoria felt the pressure through the enchanted steel protecting her throat.
Interesting…
The thought came and went as quickly as it had appeared.
This was neither the time nor place to dwell upon it.
Instead, she simply rested one hand upon the back of his head, allowing him to cling to her as tightly as he wished.
Minutes became nearly an hour.
By the time the healer finally stepped back, fresh bandages covered the child’s back, every wound having been cleaned as thoroughly as possible.
The mage hesitated.
“…One more time.”
Golden light blossomed from her fingertips.
She cast the healing spell once more.
Nothing.
Not so much as the smallest cut closed.
“There is nothing more I can do.”
Artoria gave a slow nod.
“You’ve done well.”
The mage bowed before stepping back.
Artoria looked down at the exhausted child, who had cried himself nearly to sleep against her shoulder.
Perhaps… Morgan would know.
The thought lingered in her mind.
Their relationship had been strained for years, worsened by Mordred’s birth and the burdens each carried, yet the growing threat of the Warlord had forced an uneasy reconciliation between the sisters.
If anyone in Camelot possessed knowledge beyond Merlin’s regarding strange curses or magecraft, it was Morgan.
Rising from the chair, Artoria adjusted the sleeping child against her chest.
Agravain stepped forward, arms already outstretched.
“I shall carry him, my king.”
The moment Agravain reached for him, the child’s eyes flew open.
His arms locked around Artoria’s neck with renewed desperation.
Agravain paused.
“…He refuses.”
Artoria placed a hand upon the knight’s shoulder.
“It is fine.”
She looked down at the frightened child.
“Leave him with me.”
“As you command.”
Agravain immediately stepped back into formation.
Artoria returned to Llamrei and mounted the white mare with practiced ease despite the child still clinging to her.
Once settled in the saddle, she gathered the reins in one hand before looking across the assembled Knights of the Round Table.
“Move out.”
The order rippled through the ranks as the company began leaving the ruined village behind.
As Llamrei settled into a steady trot, another rider drew alongside her.
Merlin.
Gone was the playful smile he so often wore.
Instead, his violet eyes rested silently upon the child sleeping against Artoria’s shoulder.
“I noticed your absence,” Artoria remarked.
Merlin did not look away.
“I was surveying the surrounding countryside, my king.”
Artoria studied him for a moment before turning her attention back to the road ahead.
Whatever Merlin had known, he was choosing not to speak of it.
For now, she let the matter rest.