The dark halls of Camelot whispered with secrets, their shadows hiding plots that could unravel the kingdom. Deep within the castle, away from the warmth of the grand halls, Mordred leaned against a cold stone wall. His piercing blue eyes flickered in the torchlight as he watched his mother pace before him. Morgause, regal and sharp-featured, wore a smirk that could cut steel. Her dark gown billowed like a storm as she turned to face him.
"You're impatient, my son," Morgause said, her voice a low melody laced with venom. "A king must learn patience if he is to rule."
Mordred crossed his arms, his expression dark. "Patience is for those who wait for scraps. The kingdom is weakened, Mother. Arthur's obsession with his hidden daughter has made him blind. This is the time to act."
Morgause tilted her head, her smirk widening. "And act we shall. But you must trust me. The first step is already in motion."
As if on cue, a hulking figure emerged from the shadows. The Viking assassin was massive, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. His braided beard was streaked with silver, and his icy blue eyes held no warmth. He wore furs and leathers, a pair of wicked axes strapped to his back. The faint scent of salt and blood clung to him.
"This is Ragnar," Morgause said, gesturing to the Viking. "A man who understands the art of chaos. He will ensure that Arthur feels the first tremor of his downfall."
Ragnar stepped forward, his voice a gravelly rumble. "The girl will be taken. The king will be broken. Just as you promised."
Mordred's eyes narrowed. "You're certain you can get past Merlin?"
Ragnar smirked, revealing teeth as sharp as his blades. "Wizards are clever, but they're not invincible. I've dealt with their kind before."
Morgause placed a hand on her son's shoulder. "Trust the plan, my dear. When the dust settles, Arthur will have no choice but to turn to us. And then, Camelot will be ours."
Mordred said nothing, though his gaze lingered on Ragnar. The assassin's confidence was unsettling, but Morgause's words were honeyed poison—impossible to resist. He nodded once, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Then let the first step begin."
That evening, Arthur sat alone in his chambers, staring at the flickering fire. The argument with Guinevere played on repeat in his mind, her words cutting deeper than any sword.
"She's your daughter, Arthur!" Guinevere had said, her voice trembling with frustration. "You hide her away like some secret you're ashamed of. She deserves to know you love her."
Arthur had clenched his jaw, unable to meet her gaze. "It's not that simple, Guinevere. You don't understand the burden I carry."
"No, you don't understand!" she had countered, tears brimming in her eyes. "You've built a wall between yourself and everyone you care about. One day, you'll regret it. And it will be too late."
Her words echoed now as Arthur stood and grabbed his cloak. He had tried to push the guilt away, bury it beneath his duties as king, but it gnawed at him like a persistent shadow. He left his chambers and made his way toward the eastern tower, the halls eerily quiet at this hour.
Arthur's footsteps echoed against the stone as he climbed the spiral staircase to Sylva's room. The weight of his crown felt heavier with each step, though it rested on his desk tonight. His thoughts churned in restless turmoil.
I've faced armies, dragons, and gods, he thought bitterly. And yet, a single knock on this door feels like a battle I cannot win.
He reached the door and paused, his hand hovering over the wood. She's probably asleep, he reasoned, though the excuse felt hollow. Still, Guinevere's voice lingered in his mind. She deserves to know you love her.
Arthur exhaled sharply, his frustration turning inward. "A king, too afraid to speak to his own child," he muttered under his breath. "What kind of man have I become?"
Steeling himself, he knocked on the door. The sound echoed in the silence, followed by nothing. He frowned and knocked again, louder this time.
"Sylva," he said, his voice softer than he expected. "It's me... your father."
Still, there was no answer.
Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his fingers brushing against the hilt of Excalibur at his side. "I know it's late," he continued, his tone wavering. "But I wanted to talk. I wanted you to know... I'm proud of you, Sylva. You've done so much for Camelot, more than anyone will ever know."
The silence felt deafening, but he pressed on. "I know I haven't been the father you deserve. I've let my duties, my fears, get in the way. But... you are a light in this kingdom. You are my light."
Still no response. Arthur's hand tightened into a fist against the door. He let out a shaky breath, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm sorry, Sylva. For everything. For hiding you away. For not being there. I'll do better. I promise."
He waited, the seconds stretching into an eternity. Finally, he reached for the handle, hesitating only a moment before pushing the door open.
The sight that greeted him froze Arthur in place. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight spilling through the window. Books lay scattered across the floor, the table overturned, and Sylva's bed was empty.
Arthur's heart pounded in his chest as he stepped inside, his eyes darting around the room. "Sylva?" he called, his voice rising. "Sylva!"
His gaze landed on a crude emblem scrawled on the wall near the window. A Viking rune. Arthur's breath hitched as realization crashed over him. This wasn't an accident. This was a message.
He strode to the window and looked out, his fists clenching at the sight of the torn curtain fluttering in the breeze. The height made escape impossible for a child alone. Someone had taken her.
Arthur's mind raced, fear and fury battling for control. He turned and stormed out of the room, his footsteps echoing like thunder through the halls.
By the time Arthur reached the war room, his anger had transformed into cold resolve. He summoned his knights, his voice booming through the castle. The Round Table gathered quickly, their expressions a mixture of confusion and concern as they took their places.
"King Arthur," Sir Gawain said, his brow furrowed. "What's happened?"
Arthur placed both hands on the table, his knuckles white. "My most priced possession has been taken. By Vikings."
A murmur rippled through the knights, shock and outrage flaring in their eyes. Sir Lancelot stepped forward, his tone firm. "We'll find it, my king. Whatever it takes."
Arthur nodded, though his gaze was distant. His mind replayed his last words to the door. I'll do better. I promise.
He had failed her again. But this time, he wouldn't stop until she was safe.