The battlefield was a broken ruin of crushed bodies, shattered weapons, and the bloodied remains of what once stood as Saxon fortifications. The clash of steel had long since faded, replaced by the cries of the dying and the smoldering wreckage left in the wake of Camelot's charge.
And at the center of it all, Artoria Pendragon—no, King Arthur—stood, her armor drenched in blood, her steed panting beneath her, steam rising from its sweat-slicked coat.
The cavalry charge had been devastating. None had expected the young king to lead such a reckless yet masterful assault, nor had they imagined she would single-handedly break through multiple city walls on horseback, tearing through Saxon ranks like a divine storm.
Her tactics were unorthodox—no, unbelievable.
She fought as though the battlefield itself bent to her will, wielding her sword with an almost supernatural precision. It was not strategy in the way that knights were taught—it was instinct, raw and untamed, an understanding of battle at a level few could comprehend.
The cataphracts had rallied behind her, reforging their broken formation, and together they carved through enemy ranks like a force of nature. But in the end, it was not her invincibility that people remembered that day.
It was her mercy.
The dead soldiers were just that—soldiers. Men who fought for their land, their families. Their deaths were inevitable, an accepted truth of war.
But the horses... the horses were different.
They did not fight for a cause. They did not know why they were dying.
And so, as Artoria rode across the battlefield, she had done something no commander before her had ever done—she had taken the time to protect them, ensuring that wounded or terrified steeds were either guided to safety or swiftly released from suffering.
She knew it was foolish.
But to her, it was a different kind of sin to let them die needlessly.
And so, by the time the last Saxon blade had fallen and the land lay silent once more, the people whispered of King Arthur, the Lionhearted, the knight who commanded the battlefield and still had the heart to weep for the innocent.
It was on that day that her legend began.
But legends did not come without failure.
And this failure was a costly one.
Now, standing before Merlin and Arthur in the dimly lit war tent, Artoria kept her posture rigid, her expression carefully composed as she explained herself.
"—and that is how I lost Caliburn."
A beat of silence.
Merlin blinked. Then, his lips twitched.
"Wait, wait, wait," he said, holding up a hand, his voice dangerously close to laughter. "You—" He sucked in a sharp breath, barely containing himself. "You lost the Sword of Selection because of—"
A snort.
Artoria's green eyes narrowed. "Merlin."
But it was too late.
Merlin burst into laughter.
"Oh, this is—!" He doubled over, wheezing. "Pffft—! Of all the things—! The sword of selection, the divine sword chosen by fate itself—lost because of some ridiculous, half-baked trap from Morgan?!"
Arthur, standing beside him, let out a deep sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You should have expected something like this from her," Arthur muttered, but his voice was strained. He was clearly fighting back his own amusement.
Artoria's brow twitched. "It is not funny."
"No, no, it's absolutely hilarious." Merlin wiped at his eyes. "Ah, Artoria, my dear King, I knew you were exceptional, but this? This is history in the making. Imagine the bards—'And so, King Arthur, conqueror of the Saxons, wielder of the fate chosen blade, promptly lost it due to an act of sheer stupidity—'"
Artoria exhaled sharply, dangerously close to drawing the sword at her waist.
"Merlin."
"Alright, alright, I'll stop—" He stifled another chuckle. "So? Do tell, how exactly did Morgan get the best of you?"
Artoria's shoulders tensed, but her voice remained steady.
"I was... distracted."
Arthur crossed his arms, tilting his head. "Distracted? By what?"
Artoria hesitated.
Merlin's grin widened. "Ohhh, I need to hear this—"
"One of our knights," Artoria interrupted quickly. "Was caught in a... compromising position."
Silence.
Arthur blinked. "Compromising?"
"Compromising," Artoria repeated, her tone flat.
Merlin gasped in delight. "Oh, this just keeps getting better."
Arthur exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "And let me guess. You rushed in, determined to keep the honor of Camelot intact, and Morgan took advantage of your... momentary lapse in judgment?"
Artoria nodded once.
Merlin practically cackled. "Unbelievable! You—King Arthur! The chosen king of Britain—lost her holy sword because someone couldn't keep their pants on?!"
Artoria's grip on the hilt of her remaining sword tightened. "Merlin."
"No, no, don't stop me, this is legendary—!"
Arthur, though clearly exasperated, let out a small, barely audible chuckle.
Artoria shot him a look.
"It's not funny."
"It's a little funny," Arthur admitted.
"It is not."
"It is hilarious," Merlin corrected.
Artoria sighed, pressing her fingers against her temple.
"So?" Arthur asked, his tone returning to seriousness. "What now? Caliburn is lost. We need a replacement."
The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the chamber as the heavy wooden door shut behind Merlin with a dull thud. His usual mischief had faded slightly—just slightly—as he left, though Artoria could still hear the faint hum of his voice through the walls.
He wasn't wrong. They needed a replacement.
But that wasn't what weighed on her now.
Artoria exhaled sharply, feeling the weight in her chest grow heavier.
"The weapon that had recognized me as King is gone," she murmured, sinking onto the chair behind her. Her gauntleted hands clenched over her knees, trembling despite the steel.
"How am I worthy to be King?"
The words left her lips before she could stop them. They felt foreign, uncomfortable—weak.
She despised the sound of it.
Across from her, Arthur remained standing, his arms crossed, studying her in silence. His golden hair caught the dim light, a reminder of his presence—her other self, yet so distinctly different.
"Don't look at it as such, Artoria."
His voice was calm, steady, but not dismissive.
Artoria lifted her head, searching his expression for any hint of judgment, of disappointment. She found none.
Arthur sighed, stepping closer, lowering himself onto one knee so that they were at eye level. "You lost Caliburn, yes. But do you think that sword alone made you worthy?"
Artoria's fingers curled tighter. "It chose me."
"It did," Arthur agreed, tilting his head. "But did you ever think that was all it took?"
She frowned.
"A king is not their sword, Artoria. The sword is a symbol, not the source of your worth."
Artoria's jaw tightened. "A symbol is still power. It is proof of my legitimacy. The people—"
"—follow you, not your blade," Arthur interrupted gently. "Tell me. When you charged into battle today, when you led your knights through fire and blood, was it Caliburn that carried them forward?"
Artoria hesitated.
"No," Arthur continued, his voice firm now. "It was you. Your strength. Your presence. Your will."
She wanted to argue. To say that without Caliburn, she was nothing more than a girl playing king, an unworthy pretender who had been granted a throne through borrowed power.
But Arthur's gaze did not waver.
"Look at me, Artoria."
Reluctantly, she met his eyes.
"You were not chosen because you wielded Caliburn," he said. "You wielded Caliburn because you were already worthy."
Artoria swallowed, her throat tight.
"But I failed."
Arthur shook his head. "No. You lost a weapon, not your right to rule."
She turned away, her mind a storm of doubt.
Arthur sighed again but did not press her further. Instead, he slowly stood, offering a hand.
"Come," he said simply.
Artoria blinked. "Where?"
"To find a new sword."
She hesitated before taking his hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet.
Arthur gave her a small smile, one filled with a quiet certainty.
"Your story isn't over yet, Artoria."
And for the first time since losing Caliburn, she almost believed him.
Arthur stood at the door, his fingers hovering over the latch, when Artoria's voice stopped him in his tracks.
"But what about the men who will lead them?" Artoria's voice was quiet, laced with uncertainty.
He turned slightly, offering her a reassuring glance. "We'll leave either Gawain or Kay in charge," he said with calm conviction. "You don't have to worry about that. They'll keep the men in line while we're away."
Artoria didn't respond immediately, her thoughts clearly churning behind her steady gaze. After a moment, she nodded, though she still looked troubled.
"Prepare, Artoria. When I get back, we'll leave."
With those words, Arthur stepped out of the room, leaving Artoria to her thoughts.
—
As he walked down the long, stone corridor of Camelot's castle, Arthur's thoughts lingered on their upcoming journey. The task they were about to undertake wasn't one he took lightly. His mind flitted from possible threats, to strategies, and then to the bond between himself and Artoria. She was a steadfast ally—his closest companion—but in some ways, even Arthur knew that the road ahead was uncertain for both of them.
He turned the corner of the grand hall and saw a familiar sight: Gawain, standing in the midst of a small group of knights. They were conversing with low murmurs, the rustling of their armor faint but clear in the quiet corridor.
Arthur didn't hesitate. He approached, his boots clicking against the stone floor with purpose.
"Sir Gawain," Arthur called out, interrupting the conversation.
Gawain turned, his face breaking into a grin, the strong, steady knight always ready for a challenge. "Sir Arthur," Gawain responded, bowing his head in respect. The two other knights in the group shifted slightly, turning their attention toward the new arrival.
One was a young man with fiery red hair, his eyes closed a solemn air around him. "Sir Tristen," Arthur acknowledged him with a slight nod.
The last knight, however, was someone Arthur had known for much longer—Lancelot. The man whose sword was as sharp as his loyalty to Camelot. Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, the air between them was heavy with unspoken words.
"Lancelot," Arthur greeted him, his tone even, but with a faint weight of understanding beneath it.
Lancelot gave a quick, respectful nod, his expression unreadable. "Sir Arthur," he responded, his voice measured and steady.
Arthur returned his gaze with a brief, curt nod before turning back to Gawain. "I need to speak with you about something important," he said, his tone growing serious.
Gawain stepped closer, dismissing the others with a glance. The two other knights took the cue, nodding in understanding as they walked a few paces away.
"What's going on, Arthur?" Gawain asked, his voice low but filled with curiosity.
Arthur turned to face him fully, his expression grave. "I'll be leaving Camelot for a time. It's important. I'll need you to watch over the knights while I'm away. Keep things in order."
Gawain's brow furrowed. "Leave? For how long?" His tone was concerned, but Arthur could see the flicker of determination in his eyes.
"It won't take long, but I'll need you to be in charge," Arthur replied, his voice steady. "I'll leave it to you to lead the knights in my absence. Can I trust you with that?"
For a moment, Gawain hesitated, weighing the responsibility. But then, as though the decision had already been made in his mind, he gave a firm nod. "Of course, Arthur. You can count on me."
Arthur's face softened slightly. "I know I can."
He turned his attention to Lancelot, who had been silent until now. "Lancelot," Arthur said, his voice taking on a more personal tone, "I may need your support once we return. There will be challenges ahead."
Lancelot's gaze hardened slightly, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. "You have my sword, always," he affirmed, his voice unwavering.
Arthur nodded, feeling the weight of their loyalty, their strength. It was moments like these that reminded him of the bond they all shared. "Thank you," he said simply.
With the decisions made, Arthur turned back toward the door, calling over his shoulder to Gawain, "Prepare the men for my departure. We leave at dawn."
As Arthur made his way back toward the chambers to gather his belongings, he couldn't shake the thought of Artoria. She was strong, but even the strongest hearts carried burdens. This journey would be one for both of them to reflect upon, to heal perhaps, but also to test themselves.
When the dawn came, Arthur would be ready. But would Artoria be?
Arthur strode down the stone corridors of Camelot's castle, his footsteps steady, purposeful. The castle was silent at this hour, save for the occasional murmur of patrolling knights or the distant flicker of torchlight against the ancient walls. The weight of the coming journey rested on his shoulders, but he carried it as he always did—with quiet resolve.
Reaching Artoria's chambers, he paused before the heavy wooden door and raised his hand. He knocked twice, the sound echoing slightly in the empty hallway.
"Are you prepared, Your Majesty?" Arthur called out, his voice even, but with a light teasing edge.
For a moment, silence. Then, the door creaked open, revealing Artoria in her full battle attire. The steel-blue hues of her armor gleamed faintly in the dim torchlight, and her golden hair was neatly tied back. She looked every bit the knight king she was meant to be—proud, steadfast, and utterly unshaken.
"Let us go," Artoria said, her tone clipped, efficient. There was no hesitation, no room for doubt.
Arthur couldn't help but smile at her usual no-nonsense demeanor. That was Artoria. Always looking ahead, never lingering.
As she brushed past him, the scent of metal, leather, and faint traces of lavender followed in her wake. It was a reminder that, beneath the armor, beneath the weight of kingship, she was still human. Still the girl who had once loved caring for horses more than wielding a sword.
"Eager as always," Arthur mused, falling in step beside her.
Artoria didn't glance at him, her focus already fixed forward. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we return. Camelot cannot remain without leadership for long."
Arthur hummed in agreement, though he studied her out of the corner of his eye. He had known her long enough to recognize the stiffness in her shoulders, the tension in her jaw.
She was still thinking about Caliburn.
Losing the sword that had chosen her—that had recognized her as King—had struck deeper than she was willing to admit. She saw it as a failure. As proof that perhaps she was not meant to rule.
Arthur understood that feeling all too well.
They walked in silence for a few moments before he finally spoke, his voice quieter now, more measured. "You shouldn't let this weigh so heavily on you, Artoria."
For the first time, she hesitated—just for a second. Then, she exhaled sharply through her nose. "A king does not dwell on past mistakes. Only on how to correct them."
Arthur chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "You say that. And yet, I see you carrying this weight as if it alone is yours to bear."
Artoria's gaze flicked toward him, her sharp blue eyes unreadable.
"It is mine to bear. My failure, my responsibility."
Arthur stopped walking. "Is that what you think?"
Artoria took a few steps before realizing he had halted, then turned to face him. "It is not about what I think. It is the truth."
Arthur studied her for a long moment before shaking his head, his expression soft but firm. "Then let us rewrite that truth, together."
For a moment, Artoria simply looked at him. The weight of her kingship, her burdens, and her duty all pressing down on her. But then, she gave a small nod.
"Very well."
Arthur smiled, this time more genuinely. "Then let us go. A new sword awaits, and so does our next adventure."
And with that, the two walked into the night, grabbing horse's and making their way to their destination.