Arthur awoke to the dim glow of dawn filtering through the cracks in the wooden shutters. His body ached slightly from sleeping on the floor, but he had known worse discomfort. With a quiet sigh, he sat up, stretching his arms as he instinctively glanced toward the bed.
Artoria lay there, still deep in slumber.
For a moment, he simply watched her, his mind lingering on thoughts he had been forcing himself to ignore.
She was his student.
His king.
His friend.
And yet, something in the way his gaze lingered—longer than necessary, heavier than appropriate—made him feel as though he was betraying some unspoken vow.
What am I doing?
His jaw tightened as he turned away, forcing the thoughts from his mind. This was foolishness. Whatever had stirred in him last night was nothing more than a fleeting illusion, a trick of proximity and circumstance.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly before beginning his usual morning routine—polishing his armor, ensuring his blade was in perfect condition, and steadying his mind for the day ahead. Eventually, with a final glance at Artoria's peaceful form, he shook his head and left the room.
As he stepped through the inn, he offered a small wave to the innkeeper before heading outside. The crisp morning air bit against his skin, but he welcomed it. It would help clear his thoughts.
Arthur strode through the quiet village until he reached an open field of grass beyond the main road. It was secluded enough—far from watchful eyes, far from distractions.
Drawing his sword, he let out a slow breath, positioning himself in a familiar stance.
This blade had never been used for mere training. It had only ever known the weight of battle, of war, of duty. And yet, now, as his emotions churned in ways he didn't understand, he found himself wanting—needing—to let them bleed out through motion.
So he moved.
At first, his strikes were measured, precise. A dance he had long mastered. But as the minutes passed, his pace quickened, his movements grew sharper, more forceful. The rhythm of steel cutting through air matched the pounding in his chest. He pushed himself harder, each strike more relentless than the last. His body moved on instinct, his mind chasing after some elusive answer he couldn't quite grasp.
It wasn't enough.
Faster.
Stronger.
More.
It was only when a voice broke through the haze that he realized how reckless his training had become.
"Sir Knight."
Arthur halted mid-strike, his breathing heavy as he turned toward the voice.
A woman stood nearby, watching him with an unreadable expression. She was beautiful—ethereal, even. Her long, platinum-white hair was braided back neatly, a simple dark ribbon woven into it. The deep blue of her gown contrasted against her fair complexion, cinched at the waist with a modest sash. She carried herself with quiet confidence, the kind that spoke of wisdom rather than arrogance.
Arthur lowered his sword slightly, studying her.
"Yes?" he responded, his tone calm but guarded.
The woman took a step closer, her gaze steady. "You seemed rather troubled. Would you like to talk?"
Arthur hesitated.
He had been raised to bear his burdens in silence. A king did not share his struggles. A knight did not seek comfort. And yet, something about the way she spoke—the softness of her voice, the way she seemed to see something he had not yet put into words—made him pause.
"I appreciate your concern," he finally said, his grip tightening on his sword. "But I assure you, I am merely training."
The woman smiled, as though she had expected that answer. "Perhaps." She tilted her head slightly, observing him. "But training alone does not leave a man looking as though he is trying to battle something within himself."
Arthur's expression remained neutral, but his chest tightened.
She was not wrong.
But whether he was ready to admit that—even to himself—was another matter entirely.
Arthur hesitated for a moment longer before finally nodding.
"I suppose I can have a conversation," he admitted, his voice measured yet polite.
The woman—Faye, as she would soon introduce herself—smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes.
"Then shall we sit?" she gestured toward a large tree nearby, its sprawling branches providing shade against the morning sun. The grass beneath it was soft, untouched. A quiet place.
Arthur considered her for a moment before giving a small, almost reluctant smile. "Very well."
He followed her to the tree, lowering himself onto the ground with the disciplined ease of a knight accustomed to resting where he could, when he could. Faye sat beside him, folding her hands in her lap as she observed him with quiet interest.
"So, what is your name?" Arthur asked after a beat, keeping his tone light but formal.
Faye tilted her head slightly, her smile growing a fraction amused. "Oh, how improper of me. You may call me Faye."
Arthur nodded, filing the name away. It suited her, though something about the way she introduced herself felt deliberately playful. As though it was not her true name, but one she had chosen to offer him. He did not press the matter.
"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Faye," he said, his tone courteous.
"No need for such formality, Sir Knight," she replied, her gaze flickering toward his sword. "I imagine you're accustomed to titles and decorum, but I am not so easily impressed by grand gestures."
Arthur let out a short breath—neither quite a sigh nor a chuckle. "That much is evident."
She smiled at that, her fingers absentmindedly toying with the edge of her sleeve before her gaze softened. "You carry yourself with great discipline, but your heart is heavy. It's clear your training is more than a simple routine. You were trying to rid yourself of something. Or perhaps... someone?"
Arthur's fingers curled slightly against his knee. This woman was perceptive.
"It is merely the duty of a knight to be prepared," he deflected smoothly.
Faye gave him a look, unconvinced. "Of course. And yet, you wield your sword not as one seeking to hone his skill, but as one trying to carve clarity from confusion."
Arthur exhaled slowly, looking away.
"You see much," he murmured.
"I see what is there to be seen."
For a moment, they sat in silence, the wind stirring the leaves above them.
Faye did not push him, did not demand answers. She simply waited, offering nothing but quiet presence. And perhaps that was why, against his own better judgment, Arthur finally spoke.
"There is someone I am traveling with," he began, carefully choosing his words. "She is... remarkable. Strong, capable, wise beyond her years. A leader. A warrior."
Faye's brows lifted slightly. "A leader, you say?"
Arthur gave a small nod, though his expression remained distant. "And yet, she is lost."
Faye tilted her head, listening.
"She has suffered a great loss—one that has shaken the very foundation of who she is," Arthur continued, his voice steady but quieter now. "She seeks something, though I am uncertain if even she knows what it is. A sense of identity, perhaps. A purpose beyond what she once held."
Faye studied him carefully. "And you? What is it that you seek?"
Arthur hesitated.
What did he seek?
To guide Artoria back to herself? To ensure she did not fall into despair? To serve her as a knight should?
Or... had something deeper, something far more personal, taken root within him?
"It is not my place to seek anything," he finally answered, voice firm but hollow. "My duty is to stand beside her, to ensure she does not walk this path alone."
Faye was silent for a long moment before she let out a soft, knowing hum. "I see."
Arthur turned to look at her, but she merely smiled, as though she understood something he had not yet realized himself.
"You speak as though she is the only one who walks forward with uncertainty," she murmured, brushing a strand of pale hair behind her ear. "But I wonder, Sir Knight, if you have considered that you, too, are searching for something."
Arthur said nothing.
For the first time in a long while, he found himself at a loss for words.
Faye did not push further. Instead, she simply leaned back against the tree, gazing up at the sky through the canopy of leaves. "It is a noble thing, to offer your sword in service of another," she said. "But even knights are allowed to ask themselves what they truly desire."
Arthur looked down at his gloved hands, the weight of her words settling deep within him.
And for the first time since this journey began, he was not certain whether his blade was only meant to serve... or if, perhaps, he had begun to seek something beyond duty.
Something—or someone—he should not long for.
—-
Artoria stirred, her consciousness rising from the depths of restless dreams. Her body still ached from the fatigue of the previous night, but she ignored it, instinctively reaching out to the side.
"Arthur."
Silence.
She blinked away the haze of sleep, rubbing her eyes before looking down at the spot where he had lain. Empty. The blankets disturbed, the imprint of his form still faintly visible.
Her breath hitched. Instincts honed by battle and betrayal surged within her, washing away any remnants of drowsiness. She sat up, already alert, golden hair spilling over her shoulders as she turned her gaze across the dimly lit room.
"Arthur!"
Nothing.
Her pulse quickened, her draconic instincts sharpening. Had something happened? Had someone taken him? No, she would have sensed a disturbance. He had left—of his own will.
Why?
She threw off the covers and moved swiftly, dressing in practiced efficiency. Her armor was unnecessary for the moment, but she donned her travel attire, strapping her sword to her waist before stepping toward the door. Every movement was precise, controlled. But beneath the surface, her heart hammered against her ribs.
She would find him.
And she would demand answers.
Artoria moved through the inn's narrow hallway with purpose, her measured strides betraying none of the tension coiling within her. As she reached the entrance, she spotted the innkeeper wiping down a wooden counter.
"Excuse me."
Her voice was firm but composed. The man turned, startled by the commanding presence of the young knight before him.
"Yes, my lord?"
"The man I came here with—do you know where he went?"
The innkeeper scratched his head, brow furrowed in thought. "Ah... I'm not sure, but he did leave a while ago."
The words struck like a physical blow.
He had left.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Had she driven him away? The way she had spoken to him last night—had she pushed too far? Had he grown tired of her burdens?
She barely registered the innkeeper offering some parting words before she turned sharply on her heel, stepping out into the crisp morning air.
A knight did not falter.
A king did not despair.
But she was neither of those things in this moment.
She was simply Artoria, and the thought of Arthur vanishing from her side made her stomach twist in a way she could not name.
Her feet moved before thought could catch up, her body carrying her forward with single-minded intent.
She would find him.
The search did not take long.
The morning light cut through the trees as she ventured past the town's outskirts, where the land gave way to rolling green and the whispers of the wind carried conversations unseen. She moved with instinct, drawn forward by something unspoken—a bond unacknowledged, yet undeniable.
Then, she saw him.
Arthur sat beneath the shade of a large tree, speaking to a woman.
A woman with pale, flowing hair. A woman sitting far too close.
Artoria came to an abrupt halt.
A strange, primal heat flared within her chest—sharp, unexpected. Her vision narrowed, the world around her fading as golden irises glowed with an eerie light, slit pupils constricting.
A growl rumbled deep within her throat, a sound almost too quiet to hear, yet unmistakably draconic.
The wind shifted, carrying faint echoes of their conversation toward her. She strained to hear but caught only fragments—her own thoughts drowned out by something much older, much deeper.
She had spent her life mastering control over her instincts. Her lineage as a dragon was something she rarely acknowledged, suppressing the urges that came with it. Possessiveness. Territoriality. The instinct to claim.
But as she watched Arthur—her Arthur—seated so comfortably with another woman, something inside her snapped.
Her nails pressed into her palms, knuckles white.
The air around her seemed to shift—bend—under the weight of her presence. A silent, invisible force.
She told herself she had no reason to be angry.
She told herself she had no right to be angry.
And yet.
She took a step forward, the ground beneath her foot cracking ever so slightly.
Arthur suddenly stiffened, as if sensing something. His conversation with the woman paused. Slowly, his head turned in her direction.
Their gazes met.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Arthur's brows furrowed ever so slightly, his expression unreadable. But she saw it—the flicker of recognition. Of concern.
Did he see it?
The glow in her eyes? The tension in her stance? The way her body coiled, as though preparing for battle?
Then, Faye turned as well, following his gaze.
And that was when Artoria moved.
She strode forward with the measured grace of a warrior, every step deliberate, controlled. But beneath that control, beneath the mask of composure, something dangerous stirred.
The knight-king approached, her presence undeniable.
Arthur stood as she neared, his expression shifting from surprise to something gentler—something searching.
"Artoria—"
"You left without a word." Her voice was calm, but it held an edge—like a blade carefully drawn from its sheath.
Arthur exhaled softly. "I did not mean to cause concern. I only sought a moment of clarity."
Artoria's gaze flickered to Faye for the briefest moment before returning to him. "And you found it here?"
A beat of silence.
"I found a conversation," Arthur answered evenly.
Artoria studied him.
She should have been satisfied with that response. It was logical. Reasonable. She had no claim over him, no right to dictate whom he spoke with.
And yet.
"Who is she?" The words left her lips before she could stop them.
Faye smiled—not smugly, not mockingly, but as if she understood something Artoria did not.
"A traveler," Faye answered smoothly, standing as well. "A stranger, nothing more."
Artoria did not look at her. She only looked at him.
Arthur met her gaze, steady and unwavering. "She means no harm, Artoria."
She wanted to believe him.
She should believe him.
And yet, the flicker of something deep within her—primal, ancient—whispered otherwise.
She clenched her fists once more. Then, with great effort, she released them.
"Next time, tell me before you leave," she said at last, her voice softer now, but no less firm.
Arthur inclined his head. "Of course."
The air between Artoria and Arthur lingered in silence, the weight of unspoken words filling the space between them. Though no declarations were made, neither could deny the subtle tension that had built in their exchange. The way their gazes locked, the unsaid understanding that hovered just out of reach—it was more than just the moment. It was something deeper.
And it was unmistakable.
Faye, standing a few paces away, sensed the shift in the atmosphere. The quiet intensity in the air, the connection that seemed to bind them even in their silence. Her brow furrowed slightly, her eyes flicking from Artoria to Arthur, then back again. She was no stranger to the subtle pull of unspoken emotions, but the way they seemed to gravitate toward each other was almost palpable.
"Well," she began, breaking the quiet tension between them, her tone laced with a gentle smile but tinged with an undertone of something far more perceptive, "I suppose, Arthur, I shall take my leave."
Her words were light, almost airy, but there was something in the way she said it—something that spoke to the quiet understanding between the two knights. It was as if she had observed more than just their exchange and had picked up on the thread of something unspoken.
Arthur turned his gaze toward her, his attention snapping from Artoria to Faye. There was something almost apologetic in his eyes as he smiled at her, a soft acknowledgment of their brief but meaningful conversation. His expression held a gentleness that only Faye seemed to draw out of him, yet there was an undeniable fondness in it.
"I'll see you later, Faye," he said, his voice steady but warm.
Faye smiled, a flash of something more wistful in her expression. She nodded, her smile turning slightly more enigmatic. "You as well," she said, her tone more thoughtful than before, "I hope your journey goes well."
With that, she gave a light wave before she turned away, her graceful form moving away from them. Her steps were light but purposeful as she walked, the sound of her footsteps fading into the distance.
As Faye disappeared from sight, Artoria's gaze remained fixed on Arthur. There was something there in her eyes—something more than the quiet frustration she had felt earlier. She wasn't entirely sure what it was, but it was there, and it had been there since the moment she had seen him with Faye. Something unsettled her, a feeling she couldn't quite place. Was it the way Faye had spoken to him, so casually? Or the way Arthur had looked at her, so genuinely?
Artoria knew she had no right to be angry. She was his knight, his fellow warrior, and—despite the complexities of their relationship—she was his king in more ways than one. And yet, seeing Faye walk away from him felt... unsettling.
Perhaps it was the vulnerability she saw in Faye's smile—the kind that was only visible to those who paid attention. Faye had no intention of pushing, of intruding on their connection. It was a delicate dance, one where Faye didn't ask for much but somehow made Arthur's presence seem lighter.
And why does that make me feel so uneasy?
Artoria's thoughts swirled, but before she could fully untangle them, Arthur turned back toward her. His eyes softened, meeting her gaze with an almost apologetic intensity.
"Artoria," he said, his voice sincere, his gaze unwavering. "Are you all right?"
His concern was evident, and it cut through the tension like a sword through the fog. Artoria hesitated for a moment, a part of her wondering if she should retreat back into her familiar composure, her kingly façade. But she didn't.
She simply nodded, though the movement was more thoughtful than usual. Her lips parted, but her words seemed to weigh heavier than they should.
"I..." She paused, taking a breath. "I suppose I have no right to feel the way I do." Her gaze lowered for a moment, her fingers idly tracing her own arm. "But there is something about the way you looked at her."
Arthur's expression shifted, the soft furrow of his brow deepening as he considered her words. The air between them thickened once more, but now it was different—softer, more vulnerable.
Arthur's voice was calm, steady. "You don't need to apologize for how you feel," he said after a beat, his tone gentle yet firm. There was no hesitation in his words, but there was something in the way he looked at her, something unreadable.
"It's alright," he continued after a moment, offering her a faint smile. "I suppose we should start traveling again."
Something about his response made Artoria's fingers tighten at her sides. It's alright? He spoke as though her feelings were passing thoughts, as though they held no real weight. Did he truly not understand, or was he simply choosing not to? The uncertainty only fueled the strange, simmering tension within her.
Before she could fully process the feeling, her body moved on instinct. "You won't mind a quick spar, would you, Arthur?" she asked, her voice even, though there was an edge to it—something unspoken beneath the surface.
Arthur regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His eyes searched hers as though he were piecing something together, but whatever he found, he chose not to voice it. Instead, he gave a small nod.
"I suppose we can," he said simply.
Without another word, he bent down and picked up two sticks from the forest floor. A subtle shift in magical energy flickered around them, and in an instant, the crude pieces of wood took the shape of swords. Arthur tossed one toward her, and Artoria caught it with a practiced ease.
The moment the weapon was in her grasp, she lunged.
Arthur reacted instantly, his instincts kicking in as he raised his sword to meet hers. The force of the impact sent a sharp vibration up his arm, but his expression remained calm, almost detached. He held his ground, not yielding an inch under the force of her strike.
Artoria's eyes narrowed. That same unreadable calm. That same measured response. Was there nothing that could break through that composed exterior of his?
Her grip tightened around the hilt of her sword, and she pressed forward, her strikes coming faster, sharper. Arthur met each one with effortless precision, his movements fluid, calculated. He deflected each attack with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before, but there was no aggression in his counters. No frustration.
And that only irritated her more.
"You aren't even trying," she said, voice low, her blade clashing against his once more.
Arthur's expression remained neutral, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. "Would you rather I take this seriously?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation.
Arthur was silent for a moment, then let out a quiet breath. "Very well."
The moment the words left his lips, his stance shifted. The weight of his presence changed in an instant.
Then he moved.
Faster than before, his sword met hers with force—not enough to overwhelm, but enough to let her know he was no longer holding back completely. Artoria barely had a moment to adjust before he pivoted, forcing her to move or risk losing her footing. She shifted, adjusting her stance just in time to parry his next strike.
This time, his strikes carried weight. Not overpowering, not merciless, but measured. Testing. It was not unlike how she herself fought—with precision, with calculation. And yet, there was something different about him. Something that made her feel as though she were standing before a mirror, yet the reflection did not match entirely.
Their swords clashed again, the force sending a sharp echo through the quiet clearing. Neither spoke, but there was a tension in the air that neither could ignore. It was not just a spar. It was something else. A battle not of skill, but of something unspoken.
Artoria gritted her teeth. She pushed forward again, her blade pressing against his. "You always do this," she said, her voice quieter now, but no less intense.
Arthur's gaze remained steady. "Do what?"
"Speak as though nothing matters. As though—" she cut herself off, frustrated at her own inability to put her feelings into words. "As though this—we—mean nothing."
Arthur hesitated. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but Artoria noticed it.
"This?" he echoed, as though testing the word on his tongue. His gaze searched hers again, but this time, there was something else there. Something deeper.
For a moment, it felt as though time had stopped. The sounds of their battle faded into the background, leaving only the two of them standing there, swords locked between them.
Then, Arthur exhaled softly. "I never said it meant nothing."
The weight of his words hung between them, heavier than any strike they had exchanged.
Artoria's grip on her sword faltered for the briefest moment, just enough for Arthur to move. In an instant, he stepped forward, knocking the blade from her grasp in a smooth, practiced motion.
The wooden sword hit the ground between them. Neither moved.
Arthur lowered his own blade, his expression unreadable once more, but this time, Artoria could feel the weight behind it. The air between them was thick with something unspoken, something neither of them dared to name.
Artoria clenched her fists at her sides. She didn't know what she had expected from this fight, but the answer she had gotten left her with even more questions.
She turned away slightly, her voice quieter now. "Then why do you act as though it does?"
Arthur didn't answer right away. He simply watched her, as though debating whether to say something more. But in the end, he simply sighed.
"We should get moving," he said, his voice softer than before.
Artoria didn't reply. She didn't need to.
The silence between them was not an ending, but a pause. A moment left unresolved.
For now, that would have to be enough.
—
Days passed.
The road stretched endlessly before them, and yet, despite the vastness of the open land, the space between them felt unbearably small. And unbearably silent.
For hours, neither spoke. They rode side by side, their horses moving in rhythmic strides, but the weight between them was heavy—palpable. Like a storm brimming at the edge of the horizon, waiting to break.
Artoria barely noticed the passing of time. It wasn't the journey that occupied her thoughts—it was him.
She had thought she could move past it, that she could simply push it away, but the longer she rode beside him, the more that feeling clawed at her chest. It wasn't just lingering frustration over their spar. It wasn't just the way he carried himself with that ever-composed mask.
It was the way he didn't look at her.
Not truly.
Not in the way she wanted him to.
At first, it had been irritation—her pride lashing out at the idea that he refused to acknowledge what was there. But as the hours passed, the irritation twisted into something else. A raw, aching kind of need. Not a want. A need.
Something primal.
Something draconic.
Her instincts screamed for something, and yet he offered nothing. And that void between them, that hollow gap of words unsaid, burned.
She clenched the reins in her hands, jaw tight as she tried to push the thought away.
Then, as the sky bled from amber to deep indigo, Arthur finally spoke.
"I think we should set up camp here," he said, slowing his horse to a stop.
Artoria barely heard the words at first. She was too caught in her own thoughts, too wrapped in the turmoil that had been building within her. But when she realized he had dismounted, she forced herself to do the same, slipping from her saddle with practiced ease.
The silence between them stretched again as Arthur moved efficiently, gathering wood, preparing a fire. He didn't hesitate, didn't falter.
Just as he always did.
Just as she hated.
And yet, when he turned to glance at her, there was something in his eyes—something fleeting, something restrained. Something that should not be restrained.
Artoria exhaled sharply, hands balling into fists.
It had been days. Days of silence. Days of pretending that the moment between them, the battle that had been more than just swords, meant nothing.
She couldn't stand it.
"Arthur," she said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
He paused, halfway through stacking the wood. He turned, brow slightly furrowed. "Yes?"
She didn't answer immediately. Because now that she had spoken his name, the words she truly wanted to say stuck in her throat. Coward.
Her grip tightened at her sides. No. Not this time.
"I don't understand you," she finally said, her voice lower now, quieter—but no less intense.
Arthur blinked, straightening slightly. "...What do you mean?"
Artoria stepped forward before she could stop herself.
"You act as though none of it matters. As though everything that has happened between us—" she hesitated, swallowing hard, "—as though I do not matter."
Arthur's expression didn't change at first, but there was a shift in the air. A crack in the seamless armor of his composure.
"That isn't true," he said. The words were immediate, almost instinctual.
Artoria's eyes burned into his. "Then why do you act like it is?"
Silence.
Not the kind of silence they had endured for days, but a charged silence. A silence that felt as though the very world around them was holding its breath.
Arthur looked away first. His gaze dropped, not in shame, but in contemplation. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, as if struggling with something.
"I..." He exhaled softly, shaking his head. "It is not that I do not feel. But if I acknowledge it—if I allow myself to act on it—" he stopped himself, jaw clenching before he continued, "—it would change everything."
Artoria took another step forward, ignoring the way her heart pounded in her chest. "Then let it."
Arthur finally looked at her again, and this time, there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes. No mistaking the weight behind them.
"I cannot," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but the intensity of it struck deeper than any shouted words.
Artoria's breath hitched.
Because for the first time since this torturous silence began, she understood.
It wasn't that he didn't want to acknowledge it. It wasn't that he didn't feel the same unbearable pull between them.
It was that he did.
And it terrified him, bounded by the same duty he said he would disregard when they first started this journey.
Her fingers twitched. Some deeply ingrained part of her, the part of her that belonged to the dragon blood in her veins, demanded that she take. That she claim what she knew was already hers.
But that was not how this was meant to be.
Not for them.
Not yet.
Artoria exhaled slowly, forcing herself to take a step back. Her fingers trembled at her sides, the remnants of the storm in her chest refusing to settle. She watched as Arthur quietly continued setting up camp—his movements steady, precise, controlled. Always controlled.
She hated it.
No, that wasn't right.
She hated that part of him. The part that refused to let go. The part that kept him at a distance, even when she was right in front of him.
"Arthur," she called.
He paused, his hands stilling as he finished adjusting the logs in the fire pit. He turned his head slightly, his golden hair catching the light of the setting sun. "Yes, Artoria?"
She hesitated, just for a moment. But hesitation was weakness. She clenched her hands and forced herself to push forward.
"You said this journey was for me to find myself," she said, her voice quieter now, yet filled with an emotion she could barely contain. "Yet you won't allow me to explore this feeling. Why?"
Arthur's expression flickered—so brief that most wouldn't have noticed, but she did. She had spent years watching him, studying him, learning to read the smallest shifts in his face.
"Artoria..."
"Why do you do this to me?" she interrupted, her voice breaking slightly despite herself. "Why do you cause me this pain?"
She couldn't bring herself to look at him. If she did, she knew she wouldn't be able to stop.
"Do you know how long I have been feeling this, Arthur?" she asked before he could answer. "Since I pulled Caliburn from that forsaken stone."
Arthur's breath hitched, but he said nothing.
"That moment, when Merlin told me I would lose my humanity—that I would lose what makes me feel—" her voice cracked, and she clenched her teeth as she fought back the sting of tears. "He was right. But not in the way I expected. Because in that moment... all I thought of was you."
The words left her like a confession she had held back for years. And in a way, she had.
Arthur was completely still now, as if even breathing too loud would break the fragile moment between them.
"I know it's selfish," she admitted, finally daring to glance at him. "But all I wanted was you."
She saw his fingers twitch at his side. She saw his throat bob as he swallowed, as if trying to force something down.
"I would have given up everything else for Britain. I did give up everything. But you—" she inhaled sharply, "—you were the one thing I never wanted to let go of."
Arthur's lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
"Do you understand?" she asked, her voice trembling. "My goal to save Britain... my dream of being king... the purpose I had trained for all my life—it was everything to me. And yet, you—" she shook her head, almost laughing bitterly through her tears, "—you became something greater than even that. It only took a few months, a few moments, a few times sparring together for me to realize that."
Arthur inhaled, deep and controlled, but his shoulders were tense, betraying the turmoil beneath his carefully maintained facade.
"You trained me, you shaped me, and yet here you are, still trying to halt this—" she took a step closer, her voice raw with emotion, "Why? I finally have some form of freedom, yet you still won't allow it. Why? Because you're bound to that duty?!"
Arthur finally moved, his eyes darkening with an emotion she had rarely seen from him.
"It is because of my duty," he said, his voice quieter than before, but heavy. "You are not the only one bound to this fate, Artoria."
She stiffened. "Then why does it feel like you are the only one still shackled by it?"
Silence stretched between them. The fire crackled softly in the background, but it felt distant. Everything else felt distant.
Arthur's gaze flickered down for the briefest moment before he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were calm—too calm. A facade.
"This... is not a path we can take," he finally said. "You know that."
A part of her had known.
And yet...
"Then tell me," she whispered, stepping even closer, until she was close enough to hear the sharp intake of his breath. "Would you still refuse if duty did not bind us?"
Arthur's lips pressed together into a thin line. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
Artoria watched him, her heart pounding.
She already knew the answer.
She just wanted to hear him say it.
For a moment, he looked like he might. The mask cracked—just slightly, just enough.
But then, just as quickly, it was gone. He took a step back. "That is not a question we have the luxury of asking."
It was not a refusal.
It was not an answer.
And that, more than anything, hurt.
Artoria swallowed, her throat tight. "Coward," she whispered.
Arthur flinched.
The night was still, save for the soft crackling of the fire between them. The tension that had simmered beneath the surface for so long had finally erupted, raw and unrestrained. Artoria had bared her heart, and Arthur—steadfast, immovable Arthur—had remained silent.
She had turned away from him, unwilling to face the man who refused to meet her halfway. Her shoulders trembled slightly, though whether from anger, exhaustion, or something far more fragile, she couldn't tell.
Then suddenly—warmth.
Arthur's hand closed around her wrist. Not harsh, not demanding, but firm. A touch that called for her attention, for her to stay.
Artoria stiffened.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to see him. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something that made her breath hitch.
She had seen Arthur in battle, in moments of triumph, in moments of despair. She had seen him as a king, as a warrior, as the legend history would revere.
But never like this. Never so uncertain.
"I do not fear the duty I am bound to," Arthur said, his voice quieter than before, but no less intense.
His grip on her wrist did not tighten, did not pull her closer, but she could feel the hesitation in it.
"What I fear, Artoria, is what you will feel after I accept it."
Artoria's eyes widened slightly. "What I will feel...?"
Arthur exhaled sharply, as if the words were difficult for him to force out. "Will you feel regret?" His fingers flexed slightly before stilling. "Will you feel disgust?"
The weight of his words struck her harder than any sword.
He wasn't rejecting her out of duty alone.
He was afraid.
Not for himself. Not for the consequences that might follow.
He was afraid for her.
Artoria's lips parted slightly, but no words came.
"You are hurt," Arthur continued, his gaze searching hers. "I will not take advantage of you."
Silence hung between them. The flames flickered, casting shifting shadows across Arthur's face. He had always been a man of restraint, of unwavering self-control. Even now, as he stood so close, as his hand held onto her with a hesitance that felt foreign to him, he held himself back.
Artoria swallowed hard.
"Do you think so little of me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Arthur's brows furrowed. "That is not—"
"That is what you mean," she interrupted, taking a step closer. His grip on her wrist faltered but did not let go. "You believe my emotions are clouded by pain, that I will come to resent this, that I will resent you."
Arthur's jaw tightened, but he did not deny it.
Artoria felt something inside her coil tighter. "Arthur," she said, softer now, "I have never been more certain of anything in my life."
He hesitated, his gaze locked onto hers as if searching for any trace of doubt.
There was none.
Slowly, cautiously, she placed her free hand over his. His breath hitched, and she felt his fingers tense beneath hers, but he did not pull away.
"I have spent my life forsaking my own desires," she murmured. "I know what regret feels like. This is not it."
Arthur exhaled shakily, his grip finally loosening, but she did not step back.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly, searching his gaze. "And you?" she asked. "If I were to cast aside duty, cast aside everything—would you still refuse me?"
Arthur closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if steadying himself.
Then, finally—
"...No."
The confession was barely above a breath, but it rang louder than any declaration.
Artoria's chest tightened.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them needed to.
The truth had already been laid bare.
"Then show me."
Arthur barely had time to react before he felt a sudden pull—small but insistent hands gripping the fabric of his tunic, dragging him down. For a brief moment, he was weightless, untethered—then warmth, soft yet commanding, pressed against his lips.
Artoria.
His mind barely had time to catch up to his body. Her lips moved against his, firm with purpose, and before he could stop himself, he responded in kind.
The sheer intensity of it struck him like a blade meeting steel. He had always known Artoria to be a warrior in all things—disciplined, controlled, unrelenting in her convictions—but this was different. There was no hesitation in her touch, no careful restraint. She kissed him as though she had been waiting a lifetime, as though she would not allow even fate itself to stand in her way.
Arthur's breath hitched as he felt the heat of her body press into his, her fingers tightening in his tunic as if afraid he would vanish should she let go. And then—her lips parted, and before he could fully process the shift, her tongue brushed against his.
A sharp exhale escaped him, his entire frame tensing in response. Artoria was not hesitant, not tentative. There was no nervousness in the way she sought him—only certainty, only a need that had been restrained for far too long.
For a moment, just a moment, Arthur nearly lost himself to it. His hands had hovered at his sides, unsure, but instinct took over before logic could. One hand found the curve of her waist, fingers splaying carefully over the fabric of her armor, feeling the warmth beneath. The other came up, his palm pressing lightly against her cheek, thumb grazing her jaw.
She was so small compared to him. Even now, standing on the tips of her toes, pulling him downward, the height difference was stark. And yet, she commanded him effortlessly.
His mind screamed at him to stop—to push her away, to remind her of duty, of restraint, of all the reasons why this should not happen.
But his heart—his soul—refused to obey.
Artoria shifted closer, pressing against him with an insistence that sent fire racing through his veins. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest, rapid yet steady, as if she had already accepted what they both knew but had never dared to act upon.
Then, slowly—painfully so—Arthur pulled back.
Artoria inhaled sharply, eyes hazy, lips slightly parted, as though she hadn't even considered the possibility that he would stop.
Arthur's forehead rested against hers, his breath mingling with her own, warm and uneven. His hands remained where they were—one against her waist, the other still cradling her face.
"Artoria..." His voice was rough, strained. He swallowed hard. "You—"
"Don't," she interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her fingers curled into his tunic once more, not to pull him down this time, but to hold him there. As if afraid he would slip away.
Arthur closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply. His grip on her tightened ever so slightly, as though grounding himself.
"This isn't pain," she murmured, her breath ghosting over his lips. "You are not something I will regret."
Arthur's chest ached at the sheer certainty in her tone.
Slowly, he pulled back just enough to see her fully. Her face was flushed, not just from the kiss, but from something deeper—something raw, something real.
His thumb brushed along her jaw again, his gaze searching hers. "Then... what do you want from me, Artoria?"
She didn't hesitate.
"You," she breathed. "Only you."
A sharp exhale. His restraint was unraveling.
And this time, when Arthur kissed her, it was with the same certainty—the same need—that she had shown him.