Lott watched from atop the castle walls, his eyes gleaming as his plan unfolded flawlessly. He had anticipated Vortigern's suspicions from the start, which was why he only sent out a thousand soldiers each day. It was all a calculated show—just enough to make Vortigern second-guess himself and assume that Camelot was bluffing. In reality, Lott had been laying the groundwork for this moment all along. Reinforcements led by Bedivere had already arrived days ago, thanks to the skilful coordination of his adjutant, and now Camelot was fully prepared for a counterattack.
"This wave..." Lott smirked to himself. "I'm on the fourth floor. Even if Vortigern thinks he's outsmarted me on the second or third, it won't matter. I've already accounted for everything."
As Lott gave the signal, Camelot's soldiers emerged from every corner of the castle, armoured knights charging with spears toward Vortigern's confused troops. The sudden assault sent the enemy into disarray. An iron gate crashed down, separating the Vortigern soldiers inside from those still outside. The soldiers trapped within panicked as their leader, Vortigern, was nowhere to be found to offer commands. With their formation broken and chaos spreading, the battle turned into a massacre.
Altria led the charge with her sword, her face set in grim determination. Despite her chivalrous nature, she knew there could be no mercy for Vortigern's forces—foreign invaders who had brought suffering to Britain. Behind her, the soldiers of Camelot fought with renewed vigour, unleashing their pent-up rage from years of oppression.
Meanwhile, outside the gates, King Marko stared helplessly at the scene unfolding within. His face twisted in frustration as he realized that once again, Vortigern had failed. The army was crumbling, and there was no saving it. His eyes scanned the battlefield for an escape route, and he prepared to make his familiar retreat by jumping from the city wall.
But before he could leap, he felt something holding him down, as if his legs had become impossibly heavy. He glanced back and saw Morgan standing at a distance, her staff raised, casting a spell to bind him in place. Marko's heart sank as he realized there was no escape this time. Lott approached swiftly, his sword at the ready.
"You've run from me time and time again, Marko," Lott said coldly, pressing his blade to Marko's throat. With a swift kick, he forced Marko to kneel. "But not today. No more escapes."
Marko could only tremble, his bravado gone. Lott had bested him in every encounter, and with Morgan's magic aiding him, there was no hope left. Lott's grip tightened, and a victorious smirk crept onto his face.
"Luckily for me, I have my wife to thank for this," Lott thought, glancing toward Morgan. He knew that without her, Marko might have slipped away yet again. Morgan, sensing his thoughts, smiled knowingly and lowered her staff, allowing Lott to claim his well-deserved triumph.
Within the city walls, the last of Vortigern's soldiers were either dead or captured. The surviving Camelot soldiers face smeared with blood, cheered in victory. They had achieved the most crucial victory yet, and the tide of war had turned decisively in their favour.
Outside the gates, Vortigern, watching his army crumble from afar, felt a surge of fury. The weight of defeat pressed heavily on him. He could no longer bear the humiliation of standing idly by. His mind was clouded with rage, and he tightened his grip on his sword, determined to take action.
"If I do nothing now, what right do I have to claim the throne of Britain?" Vortigern growled. He was no longer concerned with Lott's strategy or Scáthach's threat. All he wanted was to fight, to win.
But before he could charge, Scáthach appeared in front of him, her presence calm and commanding. She met Vortigern's fierce gaze with a look of sympathy and firmness. "Get out of my way!" Vortigern shouted, his voice full of rage as he swung his sword at her.
Scáthach's eyes softened slightly. "You are a brave warrior, Vortigern, but also a tyrant. As long as you live, Britain will never know peace. This time, I stand with Lott and Morgan." With a graceful movement, she parried his attack and thrust her spear toward him, her strikes precise and unyielding.
Vortigern was a skilled fighter, and though he couldn't avoid the blow completely, he managed to shift just enough to keep the spear from piercing his vitals. Still, the wound was deep, and blood flowed freely. He swung his sword again, aiming for Scáthach's head, but she effortlessly dodged, leaping into the air. Using the force from her leap, she kicked the end of her spear, driving it deeper into Vortigern's chest.
Landing lightly, Scáthach glanced back at him with a sense of finality. "This battle is over," she said quietly. "You fought well, but against Lott's mind and Morgan's magic, you were never a match. Today, you face the bitter truth that strategy outwits brute strength."
Vortigern, wounded and out of breath, collapsed to his knees, his once-mighty army shattered. Defeat was undeniable.