The gates of Camelot groaned open as King Arthur's procession entered the city. A faint cheer rippled through the crowd gathered along the cobblestone streets, but it was subdued—lacking the jubilant fervor that had once greeted the king. The banners of Camelot fluttered limply in the morning breeze, their vibrant reds and golds muted by the fog that clung to the city.
Some of the citizens clapped, their smiles forced, while others whispered amongst themselves. A few remained silent, their gazes averted as if unsure whether to celebrate or mourn.
"Victory?" a baker murmured to a cobbler beside him. "Or just more bodies buried?"
"Does it matter?" the cobbler replied. "The king fights, but the kingdom withers."
Arthur rode at the head of his knights, his expression set in stone. His once-polished armor was dented and stained, a testament to the brutality of the battles he had faced. At his side, a simple steel longsword hung from his belt—functional but unremarkable. Excalibur, the divine blade gifted by the Lady of the Lake, remained in the castle vault, untouched and waiting for the kingdom's greatest need. Arthur had refused to wield it in war, believing its purpose to be far greater than his ongoing skirmishes.
Behind him, his knights rode in formation, their expressions mirroring the king's somber demeanor. Mordred rode near the middle of the group, his posture rigid and his eyes scanning the crowd. Unlike the others, his armor gleamed, polished and unmarred, as though untouched by the blood and mud of war.
When they reached the castle gates, Arthur dismounted with a heavy sigh, handing his reins to a waiting stable boy. The boy hesitated, his eyes wide with both awe and fear as he stared at the imposing figure of the king.
"Your Majesty," the boy stammered, bowing low.
Arthur acknowledged him with a brief nod before ascending the steps to the castle.
Merlin stood at the top of the steps, his staff in hand, his sharp eyes watching the king's every move. He had seen Arthur return from countless battles, but this time felt different. The weight on the king's shoulders was heavier than ever, and it was etched into every line of his face.
"Welcome home, Your Majesty," Merlin said as Arthur reached him.
Arthur paused, his gaze meeting Merlin's. "If it can still be called home."
The wizard frowned. "Camelot endures, Arthur. It always will."
Arthur's lips pressed into a thin line. "At what cost, Merlin? Victory after victory, and yet my people grow colder with every return."
"Perhaps because they see their king burdened by more than war," Merlin replied carefully. "They sense the cracks in Camelot, the wounds we've yet to heal."
Arthur's jaw tightened, and he glanced past Merlin toward the castle's towering spires. "How is she?"
Merlin's expression softened, though his tone remained measured. "She grows stronger every day. But her isolation—"
"Is necessary," Arthur interrupted, his voice firm. "You've told me that yourself."
"I did," Merlin admitted. "But necessity does not make it right."
Arthur closed his eyes briefly, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "Right or wrong, it is what must be done."
Inside the castle, Queen Guinevere paced her chambers, her heart pounding as the sounds of the procession reached her ears. She stopped by the window, peering out at the courtyard below. When she saw Arthur ascending the steps, she let out a shaky breath.
Her maid, Isolde, stepped forward hesitantly. "Shall I prepare your gown for supper, Your Grace? The king will want to see you."
Guinevere shook her head, her voice trembling. "He will see me as I am. I have no strength left for appearances."
Isolde hesitated, then bowed. "As you wish, my queen."
Moments later, the door creaked open, and Arthur stepped inside. His presence filled the room, but Guinevere did not turn to greet him. She remained by the window, her hands gripping the sill tightly.
"Guinevere," Arthur said softly.
"Another victory?" she asked, her tone brittle.
Arthur frowned. "Yes. The Norse have been pushed back once more."
"At what cost?" she whispered, echoing the words spoken in the streets.
Arthur's brows furrowed. "It was necessary."
Guinevere turned to face him, her eyes brimming with tears. "You always say that. Necessary for the kingdom. Necessary for Sylva. But what about what's necessary for us, Arthur? For our family?"
Arthur took a step closer, his expression pained. "Everything I do, I do for Camelot. For you. For her."
Guinevere's voice trembled as she stepped closer to him, her gaze piercing. "A beautiful flower cannot grow if it is never allowed to see the sun."
Arthur's jaw tightened, and he turned away, his voice low and hard. "And a tree won't grow if its roots are plucked from the ground. I will not let the Norse, or anyone else, take her from me again."
Guinevere's eyes welled with tears. "And in keeping her roots safe, you have withered her soul."
Arthur's shoulders slumped, the weight of her words pressing down on him. "What would you have me do? Let her roam free, vulnerable to those who seek to destroy us?"
"I would have you love her, Arthur," Guinevere said softly, her voice breaking. "Not as a king, but as her father."
Arthur reached for her, but she pulled away, her tears spilling over. "Leave me."
"Guinevere—"
"Leave!" she cried, her voice trembling with anger and sorrow.
Arthur hesitated, his hand falling to his side. He bowed his head, defeated, and turned to leave. As the door closed behind him, Guinevere sank to the floor, her sobs echoing in the empty chamber.
In the courtyard, Merlin watched as Arthur strode toward the knights' hall, his movements heavy and deliberate. The wizard's gaze shifted to Mordred, who lingered by the stables, his expression inscrutable as he polished a blade.
"Your Majesty," Merlin murmured under his breath. "The cracks are growing wider."
His thoughts turned to Aodhán, the young squire who had reminded him so much of a younger Arthur. Perhaps, Merlin thought, there was still hope—if not in the king, then in the next generation. A small, reluctant smile crossed his lips as he made his way back toward his study.