===Artoria===
The night air was cool as Artoria and her riders pressed onward through the mist-covered countryside, their horses moving at a steady pace over the dew-soaked grass.
Thick ribbons of fog drifted across the rolling hills, swallowing distant landmarks and reducing the world to little more than pale moonlight and shifting shadows.
Every so often, one of her knights would break away from the formation to search another stretch of land before returning with the same disappointing answer.
Nothing.
They had spent hours searching for her wayward “son”, yet Mordred had vanished without a trace.
The uncertainty gnawed at Artoria far more than she cared to admit.
Although she trusted Godrick’s strength, he had ridden out alone to find his sister, and the longer neither of them returned, the more a quiet sense of dread settled in her chest.
“My lord,” Sir Gawain said as he guided his horse alongside hers, his voice carrying gently through the night, “we’ve searched these lands for hours without finding so much as a trail. Perhaps it is time we regroup with Sir Godrick. If either of them has found the other, we may simply be chasing ghosts.”
Artoria remained silent for several moments, allowing her gaze to sweep across the sea of silver mist stretching before them.
The land was unnaturally still, save for the occasional rustle of grass beneath the wind and the soft snorts of restless horses.
There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, and yet an uneasy feeling lingered in the pit of her stomach that refused to leave.
“…Perhaps you’re right.” she finally replied, her distorted voice carrying clearly through the fog.
Straightening in her saddle, she turned her horse northward and raised a gauntleted hand.
“Gather the men,” she ordered.
“We ride north.”
Without another word, Artoria urged her horse into motion, and the Knights of the Round Table wheeled around behind their King, disappearing into the mist as one unified host.
===
They had been riding for hours, following the route Artoria believed her son would have taken in pursuit of Mordred.
Every passing mile deepened the unease in her heart.
Godrick was powerful beyond measure, but power alone did not guarantee safety, and the silence that had greeted them throughout their search had become more unsettling than any battlefield she had ever crossed.
As the company continued north, the first signs of violence began to appear.
Trees lay splintered across the countryside, great gouges scarred the earth, and enormous boulders had been reduced to shattered fragments as though struck by the fists of giants.
The devastation only grew worse the farther they rode, until they crested one of the many hills overlooking a broad valley.
Every rider brought their horse to an abrupt halt.
For hundreds of feet in every direction, the valley had been transformed into a wasteland.
There were no standing trees, no grass, no shrubs, and not even the smallest patch of untouched earth.
The ground itself had been torn apart into cracked dirt and broken stone, as though the land had suffered beneath the wrath of some ancient god.
“By the Gods…” one of the knights whispered, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice.
“What happened here?”
“There!” Sir Tristan suddenly shouted, pointing toward something only his keen archer’s eyes had managed to discern.
Without another word, he spurred his horse forward.
The rest of the company followed immediately, charging down the hillside and into the devastated valley, their horses kicking up clouds of dust as they raced toward the center of the destruction.
As they drew nearer, Artoria finally saw what Tristan had spotted.
A lone figure lay motionless against the shattered earth.
“Godrick!”
The cry tore from her throat as she dug her heels into Llamrei’s sides.
Her faithful mare surged ahead of every other rider, rapidly widening the distance between herself and the rest of the Round Table.
Before Llamrei had even come to a complete stop, Artoria threw herself from the saddle, landing in the dirt beside her son.
“By the Gods…”
Her breath caught in her throat.
His body was drenched in blood.
A deep wound across his throat had nearly torn it open, while another savage slash had carved through his right pectoral and upper arm.
Two puncture wounds pierced his chest, and countless smaller cuts and bruises covered the rest of his body.
His armor had been hacked apart in several places, exposing torn flesh beneath, while his right hand lay at his side, clenched so tightly around a fistful of dirt that dried blood had crusted around his fingers.
Artoria’s hands trembled as she quickly examined him, searching desperately for any sign that he still lived.
Then, without warning, one of his massive hands shot upward.
Instinct took over as she struck at the incoming arm, intending to deflect it away from her throat, but the blow might as well have landed against solid stone.
His strength was so overwhelming that her gauntleted hand failed to alter its course by even an inch.
His fingers closed around her neck.
Even half-conscious and standing on death’s doorstep, Godrick’s grip possessed enough strength to crush bone.
His vision was clouded, his breathing ragged, and his instincts had reduced the world to little more than threats to be eliminated.
Then his unfocused eyes found the familiar lion-shaped helm.
Recognition flickered across his bloodied face.
The enormous hand slipped from her throat and fell lifelessly back into the dirt as darkness claimed him once more.
Artoria coughed softly while rubbing her neck, but she wasted no time dwelling on what had happened.
Looking over her shoulder as the rest of the Round Table finally reached her, she fixed Lancelot with a commanding stare.
“Ride back to Camelot!” she ordered.
“Tell Morgan to prepare her medical wing immediately!”
Lancelot hesitated for the briefest instant as he looked over Godrick’s ruined body.
“My King…”
“NOW!”
Her voice cracked across the valley with such authority that every horse nearby shied away.
Lancelot wasted no further time.
He wheeled his mount around and galloped toward Camelot at full speed, disappearing across the ruined landscape.
Artoria carefully slipped one arm beneath Godrick’s shoulders and another beneath his legs before lifting him with surprising ease despite the weight of his shattered armor.
She laid him gently across Llamrei’s broad back before climbing into the saddle behind him, supporting his limp body with one arm as she urged her faithful mare into a full gallop.
“My King!” Galahad called after her as the remaining knights rushed to keep pace.
“It’s not safe to move him with injuries like those!”
Artoria never slowed.
“If wounds like these couldn’t kill him,” she shouted over the thunder of hooves, “then a few hours in the saddle won’t either!”
With that, Llamrei surged forward, carrying both mother and son toward Camelot as the Knights of the Round Table raced behind them, praying they had not arrived too late.
===
Llamrei thundered into Camelot’s massive courtyard at a full gallop, scattering servants, soldiers, and nobles alike as Artoria shouted for everyone to clear the way.
Men leapt aside while carts were hastily dragged from her path, and before her faithful mare had even come to a complete stop, the King of Knights launched herself from the saddle.
She landed hard against the stone before immediately turning back to her son.
With ease, she lifted Godrick across her shoulders once more, his enormous frame draped over her despite his immense size.
One hand gripped his right wrist while the other secured his right leg, keeping him balanced as she broke into a sprint.
“Move!” she commanded, her voice echoing through the castle.
The Knights of the Round Table rushed ahead without needing further instruction.
Lancelot, Gawain, Tristan, and the others forced open doors, cleared crowded corridors, and shoved startled servants out of the way, creating an unobstructed path through Camelot’s winding halls.
Artoria ran with everything she had.
Godrick’s left arm swung limply with each stride, leaving faint streaks of blood across her armor, while every thunderous footfall echoed through the stone corridors. New chapters come out on novelping.com first.
She barely noticed the curious faces that turned toward the commotion as she raced through the castle.
She reached Morgan’s tower only moments later.
Rather than slowing, Artoria drove her foot into the heavy wooden door, throwing it open with enough force for it to slam against the stone wall.
The circular chamber had been transformed into an improvised operating room.
Strange herbs burned in braziers, filling the air with sharp medicinal scents, while bowls of steaming water, clean cloth, bandages, and surgical instruments covered several nearby tables.
At the center of the room stood a massive wooden worktable large enough to support Godrick’s immense frame.
“Lay him there,” Morgan instructed immediately.
Artoria crossed the room and gently lowered her son onto the table before hurrying back to force the damaged door shut.
She tore her helmet free, letting her golden hair fall loose, and immediately returned to Godrick’s side.
“What happened to him?” Morgan asked as she began washing away the dried blood covering his chest.
“I don’t know,” Artoria admitted, helping clean the wounds.
“We found him like this nearly an hour north of Camelot.”
Morgan carefully examined the countless injuries covering his body before quietly shaking her head.
“I don’t understand how he’s still alive.”
Her fingers traced the savage wound across his throat before moving to the punctures through his chest.
“By all rights… this should have killed him several times over.”
Artoria never looked up from the blood she was washing away.
“It wasn’t a miracle, Morgan,” she replied softly.
“He’s alive through sheer force of will.”
Before either sister could say another word, the tower doors swung open once again.
Merlin stepped inside.
He quietly shut the door behind him before striding toward the table.
“Move.”
His tone left little room for argument.
Artoria and Morgan stepped aside as the ancient mage leaned over Godrick, silently inspecting every wound.
His lips moved in whispers too quiet for either woman to hear, his fingers hovering inches above the battered body without ever making contact.
After nearly a minute, he finally stepped back.
“You may continue.”
Morgan frowned but said nothing.
Instead, she crossed the room and returned carrying thread and several heavy stitching needles.
“You know healing magecraft won’t work on him,” she said as she handed one set to Artoria.
“We’ll have to rely on older methods.”
Artoria accepted the needle without hesitation.
“I’ll close the wounds across his chest and arm.”
“Then I’ll take his throat.”
Working with practiced precision, the two sisters began stitching the torn flesh together.
Neither wasted movement nor words as blood-stained cloths were replaced one after another, and slowly the worst of Godrick’s injuries were closed.
Merlin remained where he stood, silently observing.
He found himself unexpectedly impressed by Artoria’s steady hands.
Her stitches were clean, evenly spaced, and remarkably efficient.
She worked like someone who had performed the task many times before.
Morgan glanced up without slowing.
“If you’re going to stand there,” she snapped, pointing toward another needle and spool of thread, “you can at least make yourself useful.”
She nodded toward Godrick’s lower body.
“His thigh and right hand still need to be closed.”
Merlin offered only a small smile before retrieving the supplies.
Together, the three of them worked through the remaining wounds until the front of Godrick’s body had finally been treated.
Once they finished, Artoria and Morgan carefully rolled him onto his stomach so they could begin stitching the deep slash across his back and the wounds surrounding his shoulder blade.
When the final stitch had been tied, Merlin quietly stepped forward once more.
“Move, if you would.”
The sisters exchanged puzzled glances before stepping aside.
Merlin studied the boy’s scarred back in silence.
“…Fascinating,” he murmured.
“Merlin?” Artoria asked.
“Oh… it’s nothing, my dear,” he replied with an absent smile.
“Nothing at all. Please, continue.”
He stepped away, though his eyes never truly left the dragon-shaped brand burned across Godrick’s back.
For the first time in many years, something resembling guilt stirred within him.
He had failed this boy.
In more ways than either Artoria or Morgan could ever imagine.
It was a truth he intended to carry with him to the grave.
Yet as his gaze lingered upon the ancient scar, he noticed something else, something he had overlooked before.
The brand was no longer merely a scar.
Thin strands of dark, malignant energy clung to it like roots burrowing beneath the skin, weaving through the old wound as though a curse had taken hold years ago and continued to grow unnoticed.
Merlin recognized it for what it was almost immediately.
He simply chose not to interfere.
As long as it did not prevent Godrick from fulfilling the role fate had prepared for him…
It wasn’t his problem.
===Godrick===
Several days later, Godrick’s eyes slowly fluttered open.
For a long moment he simply stared at the stone ceiling above him, his mind clouded by exhaustion as he struggled to understand where he was.
The last thing he remembered was lying broken in the dirt, clinging desperately to life while his blood soaked the earth beneath him.
He was back in Camelot, though the realization brought little comfort.
Every breath felt labored, as though an invisible hand were wrapped around his throat, squeezing tighter whenever he tried to draw in air.
His entire body ached with a deep, relentless pain that seemed to radiate from every bone and muscle, while an unbearable hunger clawed at his stomach with almost equal intensity.
He was exhausted beyond words, yet the pain drowned out everything else.
Slowly lowering his gaze, he found himself wrapped in layers of clean bandages.
They covered his chest, shoulder, arms, throat, and left thigh, disappearing beneath the blanket that had been draped over him.
He forced himself upright.
The movement sent white-hot agony tearing through his body, and for a brief moment his vision blurred so badly he thought he might lose consciousness again.
He had to find his mother.
She needed to know what had happened.
Bracing himself against the bedpost, Godrick pushed himself to his feet.
The moment his weight settled onto his injured leg, fresh blood immediately began soaking through the bandages around his thigh, staining the clean linen a deep crimson.
Each limping step sent another wave of pain through his battered body, but he refused to stop until he reached the door.
Pulling it open, he stepped into the corridor just as one of the castle maids rounded the corner carrying a pitcher of fresh water.
The young woman froze.
Her eyes widened in horror as she stared at the bloodied knight standing before her.
“Sir Godrick!” she exclaimed, hurriedly setting the pitcher onto a nearby table.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
He tried to answer, but nothing came out.
His throat was so dry and swollen that even attempting to speak sent sharp pain shooting through his neck.
Ignoring her alarm, he reached past the maid and took hold of the pitcher with trembling hands before lifting it to his lips.
The instant he tried to swallow, searing pain erupted through his throat.
He doubled over violently, coughing as the water sprayed back out of his mouth.
His coughing only worsened, and each ragged gasp felt as though it were tearing open the wound in his neck all over again, forcing him to brace himself against the stone wall to keep from collapsing.
“Sir Godrick!” the maid cried, rushing to support him.
“Please, you need to lie back down!”
He shook his head.
Pushing himself away from the wall, he continued down the corridor despite her frantic protests.
The poor woman hurried after him, tugging desperately at his arm and pleading with him to return to bed, but he paid her no mind.
He continued limping through Camelot’s corridors while the maid followed close behind, still trying in vain to turn him around.
Every few steps she would grasp at his arm, only for him to gently but firmly pull free and continue onward.
By the time he reached the towering doors leading into the Great Hall, he was breathing heavily.
His head pounded with every heartbeat, his vision swam at the edges, and fresh blood continued dripping from beneath the bandages wrapped around his leg.
Leaning both hands against the enormous doors, he paused only long enough to gather what little strength remained.
The maid reached him a heartbeat later, lightly striking his arm in growing frustration.
“You can’t go in there looking like this,” she whispered furiously.
“Please, Sir Godrick… you need to return to your bed.”
He never looked back.
With a strained heave, he pushed against the massive doors.
Slowly, they began to swing inward.
===Artoria===
Artoria sat upon the Throne of Camelot, listening in silence as one of her scouts delivered the latest report from the search for Mordred.
Days had passed since her daughter disappeared, yet every rider she dispatched returned with the same answer.
Nothing.
Only Godrick knew what had truly happened that morning, and even then, he had remained unconscious since she carried him home from the ruined valley.
Until he awoke, Mordred’s fate remained a mystery.
“So… you lost their trail?” Artoria asked, her distorted voice echoing through the Great Hall.
The scout lowered his head.
“Yes, my King. We followed every sign we could find, but the tracks simply vanished. I am sorry.”
Artoria leaned back in her throne, resting one gauntleted hand beneath her chin as she silently considered her next move.
The hall remained deathly quiet, every noble and knight waiting for their king’s decision.
Then the great doors began to open.
The sound echoed through the chamber, drawing every eye toward the entrance.
Artoria’s heart nearly stopped.
“…Godrick?”
She rose from her throne before she had even realized she was moving.
A ripple of astonished whispers swept through the gathered nobles, while the Knights of the Round Table stared openly in disbelief.
Every one of them had seen the boy’s wounds.
Yet there he was, slowly limping into the Great Hall.
Each step looked agonizing.
Fresh blood had soaked through the bandages wrapped around his thigh, chest, and shoulder, staining the white linen a deep crimson.
His face had grown pale from blood loss, and every few steps he seemed to sway ever so slightly before forcing himself onward.
Close behind him hurried one of the castle maids, her expression caught somewhere between panic and embarrassment.
She repeatedly whispered frantic pleas for him to return to bed, bowing apologetically whenever someone looked her way, though Godrick ignored every word.
The entire hall watched in silence as he made the long walk toward the throne.
By the time he reached the foot of the dais, his breathing had become ragged.
Even so, he refused to remain standing.
With visible effort, he lowered himself onto one knee before his mother, a grimace twisting across his face as pain coursed through his body.
Behind him, the exhausted maid quickly dropped into a kneeling position as well, lowering her head in apology for failing to stop him.
Artoria’s eyes drifted to the fresh blood spreading across his bandages.
He had reopened nearly every wound simply by coming here.
“Godrick…” she whispered.
He slowly raised his head.
His lips parted as he tried to speak, but nothing came out.
His brow tightened.
He swallowed against the pain and tried again, forcing air through his throat with obvious effort.
Still… Nothing.
Not even a whisper.
His hand rose instinctively to the bandages wrapped around his neck as he winced, gently rubbing the injured flesh before lifting his eyes to meet his mother’s.
Artoria froze.
The fear she saw there struck her harder than any blade ever could.
Godrick, her son, the boy who had stood before armies without flinching, looked utterly helpless.
His lips trembled ever so slightly before he slowly shook his head.
He couldn’t speak.
His voice… had been taken from him.
Taken by the Warlord.
===
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