===Godrick, Age Nineteen===
Two years had passed since Godrick’s battle with the Warlord.
Two long years that had changed him in ways he never could have imagined.
He sat alone atop the familiar hill overlooking Camelot, the same quiet place he and Mordred had once escaped to whenever the weight of the world became too much to bear.
The summer grass swayed gently around him, brushing against his legs as a cool breeze rolled across the countryside, carrying with it the scent of wildflowers and fresh earth.
Nearby, his enormous warhorse grazed peacefully, occasionally lifting its head to glance toward its master before returning to the endless sea of green.
Godrick had recovered from every wound the Warlord had inflicted upon him.
The countless scars that marked his body had faded with time, and if anything, the ordeal had only made him stronger.
Years of relentless training had forged him into something even the Knights of the Round Table struggled to comprehend.
He now stood a full seven feet tall, broad-shouldered and immensely powerful, to the point that only Artoria herself could still challenge him during training.
Yet despite how completely his body had healed, one wound had never truly left him.
His voice had never returned.
No amount of time, medicine, or care could repair what the Warlord’s blade had taken from him.
The silence had changed him.
Without words to rely upon, his anger had gradually lost its hold over him.
The reckless fury that had once consumed him in battle had been tempered into quiet discipline, and with that calm came a heightened awareness of the world around him.
His hearing had become remarkably sharp, allowing him to notice things most people never would.
He could distinguish birdsong carried on distant winds, hear the rustling of rabbits hidden within the grass, and even recognize approaching horses long before they came into view.
It was one of the reasons he found himself returning to this hill so often.
Here there were no battles to fight, no nobles squabbling over politics, and, perhaps best of all, no overprotective maids hovering over his every movement.
Ever since he had awakened from his injuries, the castle servants had treated him as though he might collapse at any moment.
They insisted on following him through the halls, constantly asking whether he needed anything, fussing over his old scars that had long since healed, and trying to prevent him from lifting so much as a chair.
It drove him absolutely mad.
He wasn’t crippled, and even if he had been, he would have found a way to manage without being smothered every waking moment.
Those two years had brought changes far beyond his own recovery.
Artoria’s suspicions regarding Marquess Grasso had proven entirely justified.
Acting on information gathered by her spies, the Round Table had raided a remote monastery the marquess frequented, uncovering a cache of letters detailing years of correspondence with the Warlord.
Godrick himself had led the assault, personally searching the hidden chambers beneath the monastery until he found the evidence that condemned the noble beyond any hope of denial.
That had been only two weeks ago.
And tomorrow, he would ride to Grasso’s castle at the head of an army, and capture the Marquess alive.
The past fortnight had been spent allowing Tristan, Bedivere, and several of Camelot’s more subtle knights to infiltrate the city under cover of darkness.
Their task had been to quietly evacuate every innocent civilian before the assault began, though the reports they returned with painted a grim picture.
There were far fewer innocents than anyone had hoped.
The Warlord’s influence had spread deep through the city, infecting it from within until corruption had become its foundation.
So he had been commanded to kill every collaborator he found.
It was a harsh command, but Britain had become a harsh land.
Godrick lowered his gaze toward the valley below before looking to the empty patch of grass beside him where Mordred always used to sit.
He could still hear the Warlord’s voice echoing through his mind with perfect clarity.
“You probably can’t hear it… but your sister is begging for you to get up.”
He had thought about those words almost every day since the battle.
Mordred had stolen Clarent and sought out the Warlord of her own free will, yet if the woman’s taunts had held even a grain of truth, then whatever she had expected to find there had gone terribly wrong.
He refused to believe his sister had willingly abandoned her family forever.
Something had happened after she reached that camp, and until he discovered what it was, he would never allow himself to stop searching.
Closing his eyes, he drew a slow breath as the cool breeze washed over him, listening to the countless sounds hidden within the countryside.
Birds called from distant trees, insects hummed among the tall grass, and somewhere beyond the hill, a stream rolled lazily over its smooth stones.
For a few precious moments… the world was peaceful.
Eventually, he opened his eyes and clicked his tongue.
His enormous horse immediately lifted its head before trotting across the field to meet him.
Godrick smiled faintly as he ran a hand along the beast’s neck, scratching beneath its mane before placing a boot in the stirrup and vaulting effortlessly into the saddle.
The wind caught his long golden hair as he turned the horse toward Camelot.
Tomorrow, he would ride to war once again.
===
Reaching the stables, Godrick was intercepted by a messenger, who informed him that Morgan wished to see him.
Curious about what his “other” mother wanted, he first made certain his massive horse was cared for before making his way across Camelot and into the familiar tower Morgan claimed as her own.
After knocking once, he let himself inside the circular chamber, only to find her standing near the rear of the room, quietly admiring a suit of armor displayed upon a heavy wooden stand.
The armor immediately drew his attention.
It stood nearly as tall as he did, its polished steel broken by rich leather and elegant accents of silver and gold that gave it the appearance of a walking fortress rather than something a man could simply wear.
Every plate had been shaped with remarkable skill, designed to maximize protection without sacrificing movement, yet as he stepped closer he noticed that several sections, the breastplate, gauntlets, and wide belt around the waist, contained perfectly circular recesses, as though something important had yet to be installed.
Morgan caught the direction of his gaze and allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
Godrick stepped beside her, towering over the sorceress as he continued studying the armor in silence.
Before he could gesture toward the empty sockets, Morgan turned and motioned toward a nearby worktable where several deep blue gemstones rested upon black velvet cloth.
Wisps of smoky energy drifted lazily from within each crystal, giving them an almost living appearance.
“The pinnacle of Merlin’s and my research,” she explained, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of pride.
“These gems absorb magical energy… even kinetic force… and convert it into pure power that the wearer can draw upon however they see fit.”
Godrick picked one up carefully between his fingers, watching the strange mist swirl within the crystal before setting it back down.
His relationship with Merlin had remained distant over the past two years.
Outside of the occasional reassuring words regarding his lost voice or Mordred’s disappearance, the old wizard rarely acknowledged him at all, choosing instead to remain almost constantly at Artoria’s side.
“We’ll install them tonight,” Morgan continued, reclaiming his attention.
“Return early tomorrow morning so we can test everything before you depart for Grasso’s territory.”
The moment she finished speaking, she practically ushered him toward the door, clearly eager to return to her work.
Descending the spiral staircase, Godrick nearly collided with Merlin on his way up.
They passed one another in silence before the old mage unexpectedly stopped.
“Godrick… my dear boy.”
Godrick turned, finding Merlin standing only a few steps above him with one hand resting upon his staff.
“I know I’ve been… distant.” Merlin admitted after a brief hesitation.
“Truthfully, I always have been.” He sighed softly before meeting Godrick’s eyes.
“Regardless, I want you to know that I am glad of your company. Camelot still has great need of you, and your part in its future is far from over.”
A gentle smile crossed the old wizard’s face.
Believing the words sincere, Godrick inclined his head in quiet thanks before continuing down the stairs.
He never saw the smile slowly disappear once his back was turned.
“You poor young fool…” Merlin whispered into the empty stairwell, his voice heavy with regret.
“I do not like what must happen… but if Camelot is to survive… if Artoria is to become the king history demands… then every sacrifice must be made.”
He closed his eyes for a long moment.
“I am… truly sorry.”
Without another word, Merlin resumed his climb toward Morgan’s laboratory.
===
The following morning, Godrick arrived at Morgan’s tower shortly after sunrise, where Morgan, Artoria, Merlin, and three servants were already waiting beside the completed suit of armor.
“Good,” Morgan said simply.
“Let us begin.”
At her command, Godrick stepped forward while the servants carefully lifted each impossibly heavy plate into place.
To them the armor was almost unmanageable, requiring all three to maneuver each piece into position, yet to Godrick it felt surprisingly natural, its immense weight settling across his body like a familiar second skin.
Morgan and Merlin circled him as the servants fastened every strap and secured every buckle, inspecting each connection with painstaking precision until nearly thirty minutes had passed.
Once the final plate had been locked into place, one of the servants handed Godrick his helmet, but before he could put it on Merlin approached carrying the glowing blue gemstones.
“These complete the armor,” the old mage said, lifting the first crystal.
“Once installed, they will become an extension of you. You will instinctively understand how to draw upon their power, though I urge restraint. During our studies we have yet to discover a limit to the amount of energy they can store.”
One by one he pressed the crystals into their waiting sockets.
The instant the final gem locked into place, an overwhelming surge coursed through Godrick’s body.
Power flooded every muscle, every nerve, every cell, amplifying strength that had already bordered on monstrous until it felt as though the very earth beneath his feet had become lighter.
He slowly clenched one armored fist, watching the faint blue glow pulse between the seams of the gauntlet before rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck.
Artoria stepped forward then, resting a hand against his forearm.
“I have something for you as well,” she said.
“Meet me at the front gate.”
With that, she turned and walked away.
Godrick watched her leave before spending several more minutes familiarizing himself with the armor’s balance.
Every movement felt effortless despite its immense size, as though the suit anticipated his intentions before he acted.
Satisfied, he finally descended Morgan’s tower and crossed the castle grounds toward the main gate.
His mother was already waiting.
She stood beside his towering warhorse, gently stroking the animal’s neck while several servants struggled beneath the weight of an enormous weapon they carried between them.
Even with six grown men sharing the burden, every step looked labored.
It was a halberd unlike any he had ever seen. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Standing nearly ten feet tall, it had been forged from the finest steel Camelot possessed.
Intricate engravings wound across the shaft and head alike, while the blade itself had been divided into a broad crescent axe on one side and a massive war hammer on the other, its striking face covered in dozens of pyramid-shaped spikes designed to crush even the strongest armor.
Artoria stepped forward and wrapped both hands around the steel shaft, lifting the colossal weapon from the servants with visible effort.
“I’ve been waiting years to give this to you,” she said quietly as she looked over its polished steel.
“The moment you chose the halberd instead of the sword, I knew an ordinary weapon would never suffice. After watching you train with your first one, I ordered Camelot’s greatest smiths to forge something worthy of you.”
She extended it toward him.
Godrick reached out with one hand and closed his fingers around the shaft.
The weight was immense, yet perfectly balanced.
The instant he gripped it, something deep within him settled.
He knew without question that this weapon would remain at his side for the rest of his life.
Lowering its butt into the earth, he let it strike the stone with a heavy THUNK that spiderwebbed cracks across the courtyard.
He smiled.
Looking down at Artoria, he stepped forward and wrapped his mother in a brief but heartfelt embrace.
She returned it without hesitation before the two separated once more.
Godrick lowered his helmet over his head, mounted his waiting horse in one smooth motion, and rested the enormous halberd across his shoulder as he surveyed the army assembled before Camelot’s gates.
Beside him sat Sir Lancelot, his oldest mentor, who met his gaze and bowed his head in silent acknowledgement.
Godrick answered with a single nod before turning his horse toward the open gate.
Without another word he rode forward, his mount leading the great host from Camelot as Lancelot raised his sword behind him.
“Forward!”
===
“By the Gods… there must be at least ten thousand of them,” Lancelot muttered as he studied the sea of banners stretching across the plains before them.
Camelot’s army had marched with a single objective: descend upon the lands of Marquess Grasso, root out every one of the nobleman’s collaborators, and drag the traitor back to Camelot in chains to answer for his crimes.
Their preparations had been conducted under absolute secrecy, with only a handful of trusted commanders knowing their destination.
Yet instead of finding an unsuspecting enemy waiting behind castle walls, they had discovered an army of equal size already formed for battle, as though their every move had been anticipated.
“Son of a bitch… it’s Marquess Grasso,” one of Lancelot’s generals said, narrowing his eyes as he pointed toward a cluster of richly decorated banners near the center of the opposing host.
Lancelot squinted into the distance before recognition dawned across his face.
“You’re right.” His expression quickly darkened.
“But what is he doing here? He shouldn’t have known we were marching on his territory. We kept those plans locked tighter than Camelot’s treasury.”
“My lords,” the general interrupted, never taking his eyes off the enemy lines, “movement.”
Five riders detached themselves from the opposing army and began making their way across the open field beneath a raised white banner.
Lancelot let out a slow breath.
“I think that’s Grasso himself. Truth be told, I have half a mind to rain arrows down on him before he gets halfway here.”
“Why don’t you, my lord?” the general asked.
“Because the king wants him alive,” Lancelot answered bitterly.
“Though if it were left to me, I’d pull the bastard from his saddle, tie a rope around his ankles, and drag him all the way back to Camelot behind my horse.”
He glanced toward Godrick.
“You’re coming with me. General Aldtor, you as well.”
Godrick gave no outward reaction as he guided his horse forward beside Lancelot.
Truthfully, he found the entire exchange tedious.
Every instinct urged him to spur his mount into a charge, leap into the center of the enemy host, and carve his way through their ranks until no one remained standing.
Talking accomplished little.
Steel accomplished everything.
“Come on then,” Lancelot said, nudging his horse into motion.
“Let’s hear what they have to say.”
The three riders met the approaching delegation roughly halfway between the two armies, bringing their horses to a halt while the warm summer wind swept across the empty stretch of grass separating both forces.
Godrick recognized two of the riders immediately.
One was Marquess Grasso himself, while the other could only be his bloated excuse for a son.
The remaining three took him a moment longer to place, though memories of his battle with the Warlord quickly surfaced.
The largest among them was Anthrax, one of the Warlord’s foremost generals.
The man rivaled Godrick in height and was built like a fortress wrapped in black and gold armor.
Massive pauldrons shaped like snarling goat heads rested upon his shoulders, their sweeping horns curving toward the sky, while an enormous war hammer hung comfortably across his back, its head forged into the likeness of another horned beast.
His helmet covered only the upper half of his face, leaving a thick, well-groomed beard exposed beneath it, gathered neatly against his chest by a leather band.
To Anthrax’s left rode a woman clad in sleek black armor that hugged her frame without sacrificing protection.
A long, slender sword rested across her back while throwing knives had been strapped to nearly every available inch of leather and steel she wore.
She carried herself with complete confidence, her sharp eyes constantly studying everyone around her.
The final rider looked as though death itself had climbed into a saddle.
The old man’s skin stretched tightly across his skull until every bone beneath it was visible, giving him the appearance of a walking skeleton draped in filthy robes that had likely not been washed in years.
A long white beard reached almost to his stomach, while one bony hand rested upon a crooked wooden staff.
Despite his frail appearance, his pale eyes remained unnervingly sharp, watching everything with the patience of a viper waiting to strike.
The eight riders finally stopped within speaking distance, silence lingering between them until Marquess Grasso urged his massive horse forward with an oily smile plastered across his face.
“Sir Lancelot,” he greeted warmly.
“What a pleasure to see you on such a fine summer day. Whatever brings Camelot’s greatest knight all the way out here?”
Lancelot looked the man up and down before allowing a grin to spread across his face.
“By Camelot’s throne, Grasso… how in the world did you even get into that saddle?”
For a heartbeat, the marquess’s smile twitched.
“You wound me, my lord,” he replied dramatically, placing a pudgy hand against his chest.
Lancelot continued.
“I don’t believe any blade could reach a vital organ through all that fat, so I imagine you’ll recover.”
The false friendliness vanished instantly.
“You son of a bitch!” Grasso snapped, jabbing an accusing finger toward Lancelot.
“How dare someone like you speak to me that way!”
Without taking his eyes off the marquess, Lancelot casually spoke over his shoulder.
“The next time he points one of those sausages at me, pull him off his horse. I’ll provide the rope.” Lancelot said to Godrick, turning to gaze at him in the saddle.
Godrick remained perfectly still, though inwardly he found the suggestion surprisingly appealing.
Grasso answered only by leaning over and spitting into the grass.
“So,” Lancelot continued, glancing toward the vast army beyond them, “am I to assume we’ve stumbled across the Warlord’s invasion force on its way to seize Camelot?”
The marquess’s grin returned, revealing teeth yellowed by years of neglect.
“This?” he said proudly.
“This is only one part of it. The rest will join us when we arrive at your precious capital.”
Lancelot’s expression hardened.
Without another word, he simply turned his horse around and began riding back toward Camelot’s lines.
“How dare you turn your back on me!” Grasso shouted after him, his jowls quivering with rage.
Lancelot merely raised one hand in a dismissive wave before continuing on, leaving General Aldtor and Godrick behind to finish the conversation.
General Aldtor nudged his horse forward a single step.
“You will surrender,” he said evenly.
“You will return to Camelot in chains and stand trial for your crimes.”
“You hold no power here, if I want you to speak,” Grasso hissed, “I’ll ask you to. Until then, keep your mouth shut.”
Aldtor smiled.
“Touched a nerve, did we? You don’t seem accustomed to people standing up to that fragile little ego of yours.”
Godrick’s shoulders shook with the faintest hint of silent amusement.
To everyone’s surprise, Anthrax suddenly erupted into booming laughter.
“My God,” he roared.
“That was a good one!”
General Aldtor stared at him in complete confusion.
Anthrax noticed immediately.
“What’s your name, friend?”
“Aldtor.”
“Pleasure.” Anthrax gestured around himself.
“I’m Anthrax, the Warlord’s senior general. The lovely lady over there is Noel, the walking corpse is Grizrig, and you’ve already met those two bloated sacks of shit.”
He jerked a thumb toward Grasso and his son.
Aldtor blinked.
“You all seem to despise one another. Why are you even fighting on the same side?”
Anthrax looked toward Noel who merely shrugged.
“Warlord’s orders,” he answered.
“We’re supposed to put his fat ass on Camelot’s throne.” He paused thoughtfully before scratching his beard.
“Though… now that I think about it… I don’t believe it’ll hold him.”
Grasso looked ready to burst from sheer fury, but before he could speak, Grizrig slowly raised his staff.
“You,” the old sorcerer whispered, his voice disturbingly calm, “will keep your mouth shut… unless you’d like me to turn your body inside out.”
The marquess immediately fell silent, trembling beneath the old man’s gaze while his son looked moments away from fainting.
Anthrax sighed.
“Get to the back.” he ordered.
“But leave your boy here.”
“Did I stutter?”
The single growled sentence made Grasso visibly flinch.
After a long, uncertain look toward his son, the marquess reluctantly turned his horse and rode back toward the safety of the army.
The young man remained frozen where he sat.
Anthrax studied him for a moment before asking, “How old are you, lad?”
“Twenty.”
The giant turned toward General Aldtor with a grin.
“I’ve got an idea.”
He pointed his finger toward Godrick.
“This little shit… against him.”
The marquess’s son immediately went pale.
General Aldtor looked from Anthrax to Godrick and back again before slowly shaking his head.
“I… have absolutely no idea where this conversation is going.”
Anthrax shrugged.
“Seems simple enough to me. It’s the father we’re putting on the throne.”
He glanced toward the terrified young noble.
“Not the son.”
The young nobleman wrenched violently on his reins, much like his father had moments earlier, intending to flee the field before the duel could even begin.
His escape lasted no more than a heartbeat.
A sharp crack split the air as Grizrig lazily raised his staff, and without warning the horse stumbled, its legs buckling beneath it before it crashed lifelessly into the dirt.
The young lord was thrown headfirst over its neck, tumbling across the ground in a tangle of limbs before finally coming to rest in the dust.
Grizrig clicked his tongue and calmly guided his own horse toward the terrified young man as he struggled back to his feet.
There was no anger on the old sorcerer’s gaunt face, only quiet indifference, which somehow made his presence all the more terrifying.
Leaning slightly upon his staff, he regarded the trembling noble with cold, serpent-like eyes.
“If you try to run again,” he said softly, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper, “I will make your death so unimaginably painful they will sing of it for generations to come. Now… get over there.”
Grasso’s face turned deathly pale, his legs trembling uncontrollably.
Unable to utter another protest, he awkwardly shuffled toward Anthrax, keeping his head lowered like a condemned prisoner.
“Think of this as a gesture of goodwill before we begin our own battle,” Anthrax rumbled with an amused grin before dipping his head toward the Camelot riders.
With that, he turned his massive horse around and slowly trotted back toward his own army, leaving the noble standing alone in the empty field.
“What in God’s good name is happening?” General Aldtor muttered as he glanced over at Godrick.
Godrick merely shrugged.
“Stay here until I return,” Aldtor ordered before turning his horse.
“Wait for my signal, and don’t let him escape.”
Within moments he had reached Lancelot’s side and explained everything that had transpired.
The Knight of the Round Table listened without interruption, his eyes never leaving the enemy lines as he pieced together the situation.
“Interesting…” Lancelot murmured thoughtfully.
“It seems the good Marquess has outlived his usefulness. The Warlord needed someone inside our borders to weaken us from within, and Grasso served that purpose well enough. Now that her armies have arrived, he has become nothing more than dead weight, and she’s making certain he understands exactly where he stands.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“They’re abandoning him before our very eyes.”
He turned toward General Aldtor.
“Give Godrick the signal.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Aldtor nodded toward one of Camelot’s standard bearers, who immediately lifted the great banner high above the ranks where it snapped proudly in the summer breeze.
Far out in the field, Godrick saw the signal.
Without a word, he swung himself down from his horse and landed heavily upon the earth.
The giant beast snorted beside him while the young nobleman swallowed nervously.
“Please, sir…” he pleaded.
“I don’t know who you are, but my father is a very powerful man. Surely we can come to some sort of understanding.”
Godrick ignored him completely.
He planted the butt of his halberd firmly into the ground before gently patting his horse along its flank, sending the great animal trotting back toward Camelot’s lines.
“Please!” the young lord begged again.
Only then did Godrick slowly remove his helmet, lifting it from his head before carefully resting it atop the broad blade of his halberd.
The instant the nobleman’s eyes fell upon his face, recognition struck him.
“You…” he hissed, all traces of pleading vanishing as hatred twisted his features.
Godrick simply stared back in silence.
“If I’d known it was you,” the young man spat, “I would’ve gladly accepted this duel. You humiliated me before the Warlord’s generals.”
He ripped his ornate sword free from its jeweled scabbard and leveled its point toward Godrick’s chest.
“I’ll grant you the dignity of a swift death. Walk onto my blade now… or I’ll kill you slowly.”
Godrick tilted his head ever so slightly, genuine confusion crossing his features.
Did this fool truly have no idea who stood before him?
Had he learned nothing?
He began walking forward.
“So you’ve chosen a swift dea-” The sentence never finished.
Godrick casually brushed the sword aside with the back of his left hand as though swatting away an annoying branch before the same hand reversed direction and struck the young noble across the face.
The blow was delivered with only a fraction of his strength, yet it launched the man sideways into the dirt where he landed with a shrill cry.
Grasso Jr.
clutched his bleeding mouth, staring in utter disbelief at the crimson staining his fingers.
“Y-you… you struck me!” he shrieked.
Godrick continued his slow approach without breaking stride.
“HOW DARE YOU STRIKE ME!”
The scream transformed instantly into one of unimaginable agony.
Godrick’s armored boot came crashing down onto the young lord’s left knee, crushing it completely beneath the weight.
Bone shattered into fragments, flesh burst apart, and the joint collapsed into little more than ruined pulp.
This had never been a duel.
It had always been an execution.
Godrick knew exactly who this man was.
He knew of the villages terrorized under his rule, the innocent women dragged screaming from their homes, and the countless atrocities committed beneath the protection of his father’s title.
No mercy remained for a creature like him.
Reaching down, Godrick seized both of the young lord’s wrists while keeping one heavy boot planted upon the ruined leg.
With effortless strength he hauled the screaming noble upright.
“GAAAAAH!”
The tension upon the mangled limb became unbearable.
There came a succession of sickening pops as shattered bones tore free from torn muscle and stretched tendons.
Flesh split open with a wet ripping sound before the entire leg separated from the body, leaving Godrick holding the nobleman aloft while blood cascaded freely onto the ground below.
The screams only grew louder.
Ignoring them completely, Godrick began pulling the man’s arms apart in opposite directions.
His right shoulder separated from its socket with audible cracks before muscles finally gave way beneath the impossible force.
The right arm tore free first in a spray of blood, and the remainder of the young noble’s body simply collapsed onto the earth.
His mind finally surrendered to the agony, and he fell unconscious before striking the ground.
Godrick dropped what remained of him without so much as another glance.
He drew his arm back before hurling the grisly trophy across the battlefield with terrifying force, making it land at Anthrax’s feet.
The great general looked down at the arm lying in the dirt before a broad smile spread beneath his beard.
“Prepare for battle!” he roared as he turned toward his waiting army.
Noel rode alongside him, her expression far less enthusiastic.
“Are we really doing this?” she asked quietly.
Anthrax looked down at her before resting one enormous hand against her stomach, feeling the faint swell beneath her armor.
“You know I don’t want you here.”
“And you know I won’t leave you.”
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Finally he nodded.
“Then stay close… and keep yourself alive.”
“I intend to.”
She laid her own hand atop his before he reluctantly withdrew it.
Turning back toward the battlefield, Anthrax watched the lone knight standing motionless between the two armies.
Godrick reached up and lifted his helmet from the top of his halberd before lowering it over his head before he gripped his weapon and ripped it free from the earth.
He walked past the mangled remains of Grasso’s son, who had regained consciousness just enough to drag himself pitifully through the dirt toward the distant safety of his father’s army, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him.
Ahead, Anthrax’s forces began advancing.
Behind him, Camelot answered in kind.
Godrick rolled one shoulder beneath his armor before slowly cracking his neck from side to side.
At the head of the army, Lancelot raised a great war horn to his lips.
Its thunderous call echoed across the valley, and a thousand voices answered.
===
I promise I’ll take good care of them:)