Later that night, in the private sanctum of King Arthur's chambers, the room glowed faintly with magical runes etched into the stone walls by the sword. Arthur stood alone, Excalibur in his hand, the blade gleaming with an almost ethereal light.
"So," Arthur said aloud, addressing the sword. "You have something to say?"
A voice echoed in his mind, deep and resonant yet carrying an edge of ancient wisdom. "Indeed, my king. I felt the touch of Death itself. Through the boy, a revelation has come to me."
Arthur's brow furrowed. "A revelation?"
"I can transcend my artificial nature and become your true Arcana spirit. But to do so, I must consume your existing Arcana spirit. A sacrifice is required."
Arthur's face hardened. His Arcana spirit might be a gold grade and doesn't possess the same level of consciousness as Excalibur, but it is still his partner that has been with him for centuries. It was not a decision to be made lightly. "And what will I gain in return? How strong you would get by becoming a true Arcana spirit?"
"Power beyond anything you have wielded before. I will no longer be bound by the constraints of this material. I am Excalibur, the sword that can cut through the gods. And if you die and reincarnate, I would follow you through your successive lives as long as you remain an honored individual."
Arthur closed his eyes, weighing the choice before him. The idea of abandoning his current Arcana spirit left a bitter taste, but the promise of Excalibur's ascension was undeniable. Finally, he exhaled, resolved to fill his voice.
"Very well. Do what you must."
The runes on the walls flared to life as Excalibur's spirit emerged from the blade, its radiant form towering above Arthur. A secondary light appeared—a smaller, less defined shape, the spirit of Arthur's gold-grade Arcana. Excalibur moved swiftly, its form engulfing the lesser spirit in a vortex of light and shadow. The Arcana spirit couldn't even defend itself. The room shook with a burst of energy, and when the light subsided, Excalibur's spirit returned to the blade, its aura more potent than ever.
"It is done," Excalibur's voice resonated in Arthur's mind. "You will not regret this, my king."
Arthur sheathed the sword for the first time since he met it, a faint smile touching his lips. "I hope not."
It disappeared into his mindscape soon after.
The following morning, Rael and the Duke were prepared to receive their promised reward and return home. However, during breakfast, a messenger arrived, summoning them to the King's audience chamber.
Arthur greeted them warmly, his demeanor as regal as ever. "I have reconsidered the matter. I would like you both to stay as my honored guests for three days. It would be a shame to send you back so soon."
The Duke exchanged a glance with Rael, whose expression betrayed a mix of suspicion and curiosity. "We are honored by your generosity, Your Majesty," the Duke said cautiously.
"Think nothing of it," Arthur replied with a smile. "Consider it an opportunity to deepen the ties between your house and the crown."
That day evening, both of them were summoned to a private dining hall, where Arthur awaited him with a group of people.
"Azrael," Arthur began as Rael entered the room, "allow me to introduce my family."
Seated at the long table was a regal woman with striking features, her poise exuding grace and authority—Queen Guinevere.
Beside him sat two boys, one older with a confident smirk and the other younger, whose curious eyes studied Rael intently. The elder boy was Prince Mordred, Arthur's nephew by blood but an adopted son by law, while the younger was Prince Loholt, the King's true son and the crown prince of the kingdom.
Rael bowed respectfully. "It's an honor to meet you all."
Guinevere inclined her head; her expression carried the warmth of a friendly person. "Is it true that you defeated Raphael Garcia in the tournament?" She couldn't help but ask with curiosity.
Arthur chuckled. "Easy, my Queen. Let's allow Azrael to get comfortable first."
As Rael sat at the grand dining table, the air around him felt heavy with unspoken tension. King Arthur, seated at the head, radiated authority, his presence commanding respect from all present. Beside him sat Queen Guinevere, her serene demeanor masking an intelligence that missed little.
Arthur gestured toward the teenager sitting to his right. "Azrael, this is Mordred. He is my adopted son, currently a trainee knight. His Arcana abilities are promising, and I expect great things from him."
Mordred's sharp eyes met Rael's; his smirk tinged with disdain. The boy, who couldn't be much older than fourteen, exuded confidence and arrogance. "Nephew," Mordred corrected bitterly, the word laced with sarcasm. "Though some might say I am treated more like a distant acquaintance."
Arthur's expression tightened, but he did not respond to Mordred's provocation. Rael noted the interaction, silently piecing together the strained relationship.
"This," Arthur continued, shifting the attention to a young girl sitting near Mordred, "is Artaigne, Mordred's sister and my adopted daughter. She has an amiable disposition and trained in every art that a woman of royalty should know."
Artaigne, no older than nine, offered Rael a shy smile. Rael could see her gaze flickered nervously toward Mordred. For a moment, he felt a sense of familiarity from her.
Rael inclined his head respectfully. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
"And here," Arthur said with a gesture to the boy sitting between him and Guinevere, "is my son, Loholt. He is the crown prince and next in line to the throne."
Loholt's piercing eyes studied Rael with the calculated intensity of someone accustomed to authority. At ten years old, he already carried himself with the arrogance of royalty. "The pleasure is yours," he said curtly, his tone lacking any kind of warmth.
Rael's expression remained neutral, though he couldn't help but notice the subtle flickers of rivalry between Loholt and Mordred.
Finally, Arthur gestured to two younger boys sitting quietly at the far end of the table. "And these are Amr and Gwydre. They are still too young to take on responsibilities, but I hope they will grow to serve Camelot well."
Amr and Gwydre, aged six and seven, respectively, offered timid nods. Their presence seemed overshadowed by the children of royal blood. Despite the fact that they were children of Arthur, they were born from Arthur's drunken night with maids on separate occasions. So, their status was quite low.
As the meal progressed, Rael couldn't ignore the layers of conflict and hidden agendas woven into the royal family. Mordred's open resentment toward Arthur, Loholt's disdainful pride, and Artaigne's quiet unease painted a vivid picture of a family struggling to maintain harmony.
At one point, Mordred leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Tell me, Azrael, how does it feel to stand victorious in the rookie tournament, and that too, defeating Raphael, the disciple of Alexadrus? Surely, you must think yourself destined for greatness."
Rael met his gaze calmly. "Destiny is shaped by one's choices, not by assumptions."
Mordred's smirk widened. "Spoken like someone who hasn't yet faced the weight of true responsibility."
"And did His Highness ever face such true responsibility?" Rael raised one of his eyebrows.
Modred gritted his teeth as he almost spilled the pumpkin juice in the goblet in his hands. "Born as the child of a princess, who was wronged by her father and forced to take revenge by claiming her rightful throne, but only to be labeled as a witch and beheaded later on… you don't know what kind of weight is that… And…"
Arthur's voice cut through the tension. "That's enough, Mordred. Must I remind you that Duke Aurelius is here, too?"