=== Godrick, Age Fifteen ===
“Damn it,” Galahad muttered as he watched the battle unfold from the hilltop beside Agravain.
“The King won’t be pleased about this,” Agravain replied, his eyes fixed on the growing destruction below as another building collapsed into a cloud of dust.
Neither knight spoke again for several minutes.
They simply watched as the fighting raged through the town until, with a deafening roar, the keep itself finally gave way.
Stone walls folded inward, sending a massive plume of rubble and dust into the sky.
Both men let out quiet sighs.
“Come on,” Agravain said, gently nudging his horse forward.
“Let’s go get him. I have a feeling he’s not going to take this well.”
They rode slowly down the hillside, passing through the shattered remains of the gate Godrick had blasted open only minutes before.
The devastation became more apparent with every step their horses took.
The cobblestone streets were fractured into great webs of cracks, while collapsed buildings had buried entire sections of the town beneath broken timber and stone.
At the center of it all stood what remained of Aberrheidol Keep.
Only a single wall still clung stubbornly to the earth, while the rest had been reduced to little more than a mountain of rubble.
“He really isn’t going to be happy,” Galahad murmured as he surveyed the destruction.
Agravain remained silent.
His attention had already settled on the lone figure emerging from the settling dust.
Godrick walked toward them without a word.
His once-pristine armor had been reduced to little more than battered steel hanging from its stubborn leather straps.
His left pauldron had been almost completely destroyed, exposing the deep wound beneath, while a gaping hole pierced the center of his breastplate, its jagged edges stained dark with dried blood.
His helmet which he held in his left hand was battered beyond recognition, one side crushed inward from repeated blows, yet he carried himself as though none of it mattered.
Clutched in his right hand were the spoils of the battle, a broken spear, the shattered handle of a massive club, the head of a barbarian’s axe, and the curved blade of an eastern swordswoman.
Without acknowledging either knight, he reached his horse, secured the captured weapons to the saddle, and pulled himself into it with a weary grunt.
Only after everything was fastened down did he turn the great animal toward the ruined gate and begin riding away.
Galahad glanced toward Agravain, who returned the look with a small shake of his head.
Neither man could think of anything worth saying, so they simply urged their horses forward and followed in silence.
Just before they passed through the shattered gateway, Godrick drew his mount to a halt.
Slowly, he turned in the saddle and looked back over the ruins of Aberrheidol.
His gaze lingered on the collapsed keep, the broken streets, and the buildings he had failed to protect, silently committing every detail to memory.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but it carried an unshakable resolve.
“This is the first…”
He paused, never taking his eyes off the destruction.
“…and the last time I fail my King.”
===
A few days later, the three of them arrived in the Kingdom of Powys, where Mordred had begun her task of ruling in preparation for her ascension to the Round Table.
During the journey, Godrick had discarded most of his armor.
Aside from his greaves and sabatons, the rest had been too badly damaged to justify repairing, and even Camelot’s finest smiths would have struggled to restore it.
Fortunately, his body proved far easier to mend than steel.
Thanks to his unnatural healing ability, the wounds he had suffered at Aberrheidol closed within hours, and by the time they reached Dinas Brân, the capital of Powys, scarcely a trace of the battle remained beyond the dried blood still staining his clothing.
Rain had begun to fall as they entered the city.
Galahad and Agravain pulled the hoods of their cloaks over their heads while Godrick ignored the weather entirely, allowing the cold rain to soak his golden hair as they dismounted and continued on foot toward the great keep that overlooked the city.
As they walked through the muddy streets, the people watched them pass in uneasy silence.
Godrick found himself returning their stares, and the longer he looked, the more he noticed the same hollow expressions repeated over and over again.
Their clothes were threadbare, their faces gaunt from hunger, and many of the buildings lining the streets still bore scars from the war that had ended years earlier.
“Agravain,” he said quietly, never taking his eyes off the people around them.
“What’s wrong with these people?”
Both knights slowed their pace, following his gaze before looking out across the city themselves.
“War,” Agravain answered simply.
“King Gorfyddyd stripped his people of everything to feed his rebellion,” Galahad continued.
“Their fathers and sons were conscripted, their livestock slaughtered, and their harvests seized to supply his armies. By the time the war ended, there was very little left for those who survived, and many still haven’t recovered.”
Agravain nodded.
“This is the part of war most soldiers never see. We concern ourselves with defeating the enemy standing before us, but it is people like these who bear the greatest burden. That is why you are being trained to become a knight, and why Mordred is being trained to become a king. Strength exists to prevent this, not merely to win battles.”
Godrick remained silent as they continued toward the keep, his eyes lingering on the weary faces around him until they finally passed through the massive stone gate and entered the great hall.
The chamber was crowded with petitioners waiting for an audience with the ruler of Powys, or, in this case, its temporary regent.
Mordred sat upon the throne in full armor, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the proceedings.
Resting her helmeted head against one gauntleted hand, she listened with obvious boredom as two landowners argued over the placement of their boundary markers, each insisting the other had moved the stones to steal valuable farmland.
Lancelot and Gawain stood on either side of the throne, listening far more attentively than their young charge.
Godrick, Agravain, and Galahad quietly worked their way around the edge of the crowded hall, but before they could reach the front, Mordred noticed them.
Her posture immediately changed.
“I’ve heard enough,” she declared, straightening on the throne.
“I’ll confer with my advisers and have a judgment delivered to the magistrate before the end of the day.”
The two men bowed and withdrew.
“I believe that concludes court for today,” Mordred continued, her distorted voice carrying easily throughout the hall.
“Thank you all for your patience. We will resume tomorrow.”
As the hall slowly emptied, she wasted no time stepping down from the throne and hurrying toward the three newcomers.
“Brother!”
She threw her arms around Godrick in a tight embrace, but he remained strangely still, returning it only halfheartedly.
Feeling the lack of enthusiasm immediately, Mordred pulled back and studied his face.
“What is it?” she asked quietly.
“I… I failed,” Godrick admitted, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“I destroyed the city.”
Mordred frowned behind her helmet in confusion.
“What do you mean you failed? How could you fail?”
Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed his wrist and led him away from the bustling hall.
They slipped into a small adjoining chamber where they could finally speak in private, the noise of court fading behind the thick wooden door.
Taking seats across from one another at a small table, she took her helmet off and leaned forward, waiting for him to explain.
“I lost control,” Godrick said quietly.
“I underestimated my enemies, and they got the better of me. Once that happened…” He shook his head.
“I gave in. I destroyed several buildings… and I brought down the keep.”
Mordred blinked.
“But… you killed the Headhunters, didn’t you?”
“It was never about killing the Headhunters.”
His answer came so quickly that it caught her off guard.
“They were dead the moment Mother gave me the assignment. That was never the challenge.” He looked down at his hands.
“The real test was whether I could finish the mission without losing control of myself. I was supposed to protect the town while eliminating them, and instead I reduced half of it to rubble.”
“I understand that,” Mordred replied after a moment.
She nudged him playfully, hoping to lighten the mood.
“No… you don’t understand!”
His voice hardened as he suddenly stood and began pacing around the room.
“How am I supposed to earn her trust if she’s merciful every time I fail?” he demanded, throwing his hands into the air.
“She has to be able to rely on me. You have to be able to rely on me.”
“Godrick, I do trust you.”
He immediately shook his head.
“You trust me to wipe out an army, sure. But do you trust me to do it without leveling everything around me?” He laughed bitterly.
“Because I don’t. Once I lose myself, I can barely hold onto my own sanity.”
Mordred watched him pace for another few moments before letting out a slow sigh and resting her elbows on the table.
“All right,” she admitted.
“I can see where you’re coming from.”
She looked up at him, her voice softening.
“But Mother will see what you accomplished too, won’t she? You fought and killed four Headhunters by yourself. That has to count for something.”
Godrick continued pacing, too consumed by his own thoughts to answer.
Eventually, he stopped, closed his eyes, and drew a long, steady breath.
The tension slowly left his shoulders as he forced himself to calm down.
“…All I can do is accept her judgment,” he said quietly.
Mordred rose from her chair, walked over, and gave him a firm pat on the back.
“Then we’ll face it together.”
He looked down at her.
“And if we both fail?”
She smiled.
“Then we’ll face that together too.”
For the first time since arriving in Powys, a faint smile tugged at the corner of Godrick’s mouth.
“My… you being the level-headed one. Hell really must have frozen over.”
Mordred snorted.
“Keep talking like that and I’ll kick your ass. Remember, I’m your future King.”
“There she is,” Godrick chuckled as he followed her back toward the door.
=== Godrick, Age Fifteen — Six Months Later ===
Godrick and Mordred knelt together at the foot of their mother’s throne, waiting in silence for the judgment that would decide whether they were worthy of joining the Knights of the Round Table.
Over the past six months, Artoria had received countless reports from the four knights assigned to guide and observe her children.
She had read every one of them herself, hoping to see proof that they were ready.
Instead, she had found disappointment.
Mordred, her firstborn, had proven courageous and decisive, but also hotheaded, hasty, and stubborn.
More often than not, she had rushed to judgment during court, forcing Lancelot and Gawain to quietly amend her rulings before they reached the magistrates responsible for carrying them out.
Whenever the two veteran knights attempted to correct her in private, she dismissed their advice, choosing instead to spend her free time training alongside Godrick rather than learning from the men she had been entrusted to.
Looking back now, Artoria couldn’t help but wonder if sending Godrick to Powys alongside her had been a mistake.
Perhaps she should have recalled him to Camelot immediately after Aberrheidol instead of allowing the two siblings to remain together.
Godrick’s own report was no easier to read.
Although he had completed his mission by eliminating every one of the Warlord’s Headhunters, he had utterly failed the true purpose of his trial.
Unable to maintain control over himself, he had reduced much of Aberrheidol to ruins, collapsing its keep and forcing the Crown to shoulder the immense cost of rebuilding it.
There was simply no avoiding the truth.
Both of her children had failed.
As much as it pained her, she knew there could be only one judgment.
The hidden door behind the throne opened, and Artoria stepped into the Great Hall clad in her royal armor.
The moment she appeared, every noble, knight, and attendant present dropped to one knee in silent respect.
She crossed the hall with measured steps before taking her place upon the throne, her gaze settling on the two figures kneeling before her.
They were so different, yet somehow so alike.
One was a daughter she had been forced to teach that the world would never willingly accept her for who she truly was.
Mordred would forever have to hide behind the name and face of a man, and yet Artoria had always hoped she would learn that true strength was earned through character and merit, not birth.
The other was a son she had devoted herself to healing.
She had tried to convince him that the world was no longer the nightmare it had once been, that he no longer needed to live as the frightened child stolen by the Warlord, and that true strength did not lie in overwhelming power, but in mastering it.
Different lessons.
Different burdens.
Yet both had been striving toward the same destination.
“Mordred… my firstborn.”
Her distorted voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, silencing even the quiet whispers among the gathered nobility.
“I have received the reports of your mentors, Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain. Both men have spoken highly of your courage and your ability to inspire those beneath your command. However…” She allowed the word to linger.
“They have also informed me that you allowed your pride to guide your judgments, that your temper clouded your reason, and that you repeatedly ignored the counsel of those placed beside you to ensure your success.”
Her gaze remained fixed upon her daughter.
“A ruler who refuses wise counsel will inevitably make poor decisions, no matter how noble their intentions. You were entrusted with the people of Powys, yet too often you allowed your ego and your impatience to outweigh justice itself.”
“For these reasons,” Artoria continued, her voice unwavering, “I cannot permit you to join the ranks of the Knights of the Round Table at this time.”
The words settled over the Great Hall like a heavy fog.
Without giving anyone time to react, her gaze shifted to the figure kneeling beside Mordred.
“Godrick, my second son.”
He lowered his head even further.
“You failed to maintain control of yourself during the battle at Aberrheidol Castle. Although you successfully eliminated the Warlord’s Headhunters, that was never the true purpose of your trial.” Her voice remained calm, but there was no softness in it.
“In losing control, you destroyed the keep at Aberrheidol, a fortress of considerable strategic value in our war against the Warlord. Its loss has forced the Crown to divert valuable labor, materials, and time toward rebuilding it when those resources should have been strengthening Britain’s defenses.”
She paused only briefly before continuing.
“The destruction did not end there. Multiple homes and businesses surrounding the keep were reduced to rubble, displacing innocent families whose livelihoods were caught in the wake of your actions. Those burdens, too, have fallen upon the Crown to mend.”
Godrick closed his eyes.
Every word was true.
“For these reasons,” she said once more, “I cannot permit you to join the ranks of the Knights of the Round Table at this time.”
His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the judgment, not because he believed it unfair, but because he knew he had earned it.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Mordred’s hand trembling where it rested against the floor.
Whether it shook with anger, frustration, or heartbreak, he couldn’t tell.
Artoria looked at them both in silence before speaking one final time.
“This is not the end of your journey.”
Her tone softened, if only slightly.
“One week from today, the Knights of the Round Table will assemble and cast their votes. Together, they will determine when each of you will be given another opportunity to prove yourselves worthy of joining their order.”
Silence followed.
Then Artoria rose from her throne.
“Dismissed.”
Without another word, she turned and disappeared through the hidden doorway behind the throne, leaving the Great Hall cloaked in a heavy silence as every eye remained fixed on the two young heirs still kneeling before the empty throne.
“Damn it!”
Mordred’s roar echoed through the chamber as she hurled a wooden chair across the room.
It smashed against the far wall, exploding into splinters.
“How could she do this to us?”
She drove her fist into the table the chair had belonged to, splitting the heavy wood down the middle before shoving the broken halves aside.
Still unable to vent her frustration, she overturned another table with a furious kick, sending it crashing across the stone floor.
“I feel so humiliated!”
From the corner of the room, Godrick remained seated in silence, watching her rage burn itself out.
“Enough, Mordred.”
His voice was quiet, but it cut cleanly through the chaos.
She spun toward him, disbelief flashing across her face.
“Excuse me?”
“I said… that’s enough.”
This time there was steel behind his words.
Mordred stormed across the room until she stood inches from him, glaring up into his face.
“This affects you just as much as it affects me, and you’re telling me to calm down?” she demanded.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Godrick didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he slowly rose from his chair, forcing Mordred to take an involuntary step backward as his much larger frame towered over her.
“Make no mistake, dear sister,” he said evenly.
“I am just as angry about the outcome of our trials as you are.”
“But it was not Mother who failed us. It was we who failed her.”
He took a slow step forward, and Mordred instinctively gave ground.
“We were given our tasks, and we fell short of what she expected.” His voice continued to rise, not with blind rage but with conviction.
“So tell me… whose fault is that?”
Another step.
“OURS!”
The word thundered through the room, leaving only silence behind it.
Godrick stood there for several moments, breathing heavily as he stared into his sister’s eyes.
Eventually, the anger drained from his expression.
He turned away, walked back across the room, and lowered himself into his chair once more.
“I am angry,” he admitted quietly, his back still to Mordred.
“But the only person I have the right to be angry with… is myself.”
Before either of them could speak again, the chamber door swung open.
Morgan stepped inside, only to stop as her eyes swept over the destruction scattered across the room.
Broken furniture lay everywhere, wood littered the floor, and one wall still bore the splintered remains of the chair Mordred had thrown.
“My goodness,” she remarked dryly, folding her hands neatly before her waist.
“It seems you two have been keeping yourselves entertained.”
Neither sibling answered.
“You will clean this room,” she continued calmly, “and then meet me in the southern tower.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned and left as quietly as she had arrived.
Godrick released a long sigh before standing and beginning to gather the broken pieces of furniture.
For a few moments, Mordred simply watched him.
“You don’t have to do that,” she finally said.
“I’ll clean it up myself.”
She knelt beside him and began picking splintered pieces of wood from the floor.
Godrick glanced over at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“That’s not how this works.”
She looked up.
“We either win together, or we lose together.” He reached over and picked up another broken plank before handing it to her.
“And if one of us makes a mess…”
“…the other helps clean it up.”
Mordred couldn’t help but smile as the two of them continued gathering the shattered remains of the room side by side.
===
Up in Morgan’s tower, five people gathered within the large circular chamber.
One side of the room was lined with heavy tables cluttered with strange stones, ancient tomes, loose parchment, and half-finished notes, while another housed alchemical equipment, bubbling glassware, and countless oddities collected over years of study.
Dominating the center of the room stood a massive wooden table covered in even more books and papers, with the four weapons Godrick had recovered from the Headhunters laid neatly across its surface.
Artoria understood that Mordred was still furious with her, though she chose not to address it for the time being.
Merlin, meanwhile, paid Godrick almost no attention at all.
The young knight had made several attempts over the past few days to speak with the legendary mage, but every conversation ended before it had truly begun, leaving him with the uncomfortable feeling that Merlin simply wanted nothing to do with him.
“Now that everyone is here,” Morgan began, drawing their attention to the weapons, “I’ve discovered something rather unusual about those Godrick recovered from Aberrheidol Castle.”
She handed each of them one of the captured weapons before pointing out several strange symbols carved and burned into their wooden shafts and metal fittings.
“These are runes,” she explained.
“They are a form of magic created by carving or inscribing specific symbols into an object, granting it unique properties.”
Merlin stepped closer and studied the handle of Goki’s broken club before tracing two of the markings with a finger.
“I recognize these,” he said.
“This one signifies strength, while this one represents durability.”
He turned the weapon over in his hands, examining every inch of it.
“Together, they would have granted the wielder tremendous physical power while making the weapon itself nearly impossible to destroy.” A faint smile crossed his lips.
“Though, judging by its current state, I’d say that second rune met its match.”
Morgan looked toward Godrick.
“Did you notice anything unusual during the battle? Did they seem stronger at certain moments?”
“They did,” Godrick answered with a nod.
“The largest of them fled the moment his weapon broke. At first I thought he was retreating, but he was only trying to recover the handle. As soon as he picked it up again, it was as though his strength multiplied. Every blow became heavier, and he began overpowering me where he hadn’t before.”
“Fascinating,” Merlin murmured.
He reached for the spear resting on the table and absentmindedly ran a finger along its blade.
A sharp sting made him glance down as a thin line of crimson appeared across his fingertip, a single drop of blood rolling slowly down his finger.
Morgan watched the reaction with quiet satisfaction before returning her attention to Artoria.
The King gave a thoughtful nod.
“Morgan, continue your research. I want every one of those symbols identified, along with whatever magic they possess. If our enemy has begun arming their champions with enchanted weapons, we cannot afford to remain ignorant.”
She then turned to her children.
“As for the two of you, get a good night’s rest. Your training with your instructors resumes tomorrow morning.”
“Yes… Father,” Mordred replied, placing deliberate emphasis on the final word.
The venom in her voice made the room fall silent as she brushed past Artoria and disappeared down the spiral staircase without another glance.