Artoria stepped through the door, bracing herself for the unknown.
And then—
Light.
Not the blinding kind, nor the searing glow of magecraft, but something softer. Warmer.
She stood beneath an endless sky. The stars above shimmered in clusters, stretching far beyond what the human eye could comprehend. They pulsed faintly, like the quiet beating of a heart. The air smelled of the earth after rain, and a gentle breeze ghosted across her skin.
This place...
It was familiar.
She had barely begun to process it when—
"Artorius, pay attention."
Arthur's voice cut through her thoughts, firm yet almost amused.
She reacted instinctively. The weight of a practice sword was familiar in her grip as she lifted it just in time to meet his strike.
Their blades clashed, the impact resonating through the quiet night. Sparks danced in the space between them before vanishing into the air.
Arthur pushed forward, testing her footing.
She held firm.
Their sparring had become routine—a necessity for knights, for kings. Yet there was something different about tonight.
He withdrew his blade slightly, shifting his stance, and Artoria mirrored him without thinking. Their movements were practiced, measured—a conversation not in words, but in steel.
And yet, it was he who spoke first.
"You hesitated."
She frowned. "I did not."
He chuckled. "You did. Just for a moment. Your mind was elsewhere."
Artoria tightened her grip on her sword. "That does not matter. A true knight must act without delay."
Arthur tilted his head slightly, studying her.
"Even a king?"
The question caught her off guard.
She had expected him to press her on strategy, on technique. Not this.
Her lips parted, but no immediate answer came.
Arthur smiled faintly. It was different from the grins he shared with his knights—softer, more thoughtful. He lowered his blade slightly, though he did not yet sheathe it.
"You carry the weight of your people, Artoria. But that does not mean you must become stone."
She tensed. "A king has no need for selfishness."
Arthur's expression remained steady. "And yet, it is selfish to believe you must carry it all alone."
The wind stirred between them, tugging at their cloaks, their hair.
Artoria did not look away.
"I do not carry it alone."
"No?" His gaze softened, though his grip on his sword remained firm. "Then tell me—when was the last time you allowed yourself to simply be?"
Her breath caught, just slightly.
Arthur stepped closer—not in challenge, not in offense, but in something else. Something quieter.
"Artoria," he said, and it was the first time he had spoken her name without the weight of duty behind it.
A flicker of something stirred in her chest, unfamiliar yet undeniable.
She had spent years perfecting the role of a king. A ruler. A protector.
But in this moment, beneath the quiet sky, she was simply Artoria.
And for the first time, she wondered if that could be enough.
Everything around her faded around her.
The hallway stretched out before Artoria.
The air grew colder as she reached a crossroads. Two distinct paths lay ahead, one dark and foreboding, the other faintly illuminated, as though beckoning her toward it. Before she could even think of choosing, the darkness consumed one of the paths, and the ground beneath her feet seemed to vanish.
A figure appeared before her: Merlin, his eyes obscured by the shadow of his hood. His presence, like the very air, was both familiar and alien to her, an enigma wrapped in wisdom, danger, and mystery.
"Remember this, Artoria," Merlin's voice echoed, deep and deliberate. He approached her, his words carrying the weight of years. "When you accept Caliburn, when you accept the fact that you are king, you will be a king. But you will be alone."
Artoria's breath caught, her heart already heavy with the weight of this prophecy. She knew the cost of kingship all too well. It had always been clear to her—sacrifice, duty, isolation.
"No one will ever be able to love you, not even as a king. You will walk the path of a king and die alone. Once you take up that sword, you will forsake the life of a regular human for the rest of your days." Merlin's voice was sharp, each word cutting through the silence.
Artoria's hand instinctively moved to her side, where the phantom weight of Caliburn once rested. The sword she had always believed would shape her destiny. The sword that would fulfill her purpose. The sword that would define the life of the once-ordinary girl now standing before Merlin, ready to take the mantle of a king.
But was it really what she wanted? Was it truly the only way forward?
Merlin continued, his eyes hidden, but his words burned into her like a brand. "But that's not the only cost. If you choose this path, you will face the scorn of all, and your end will be one of suffering. A king must dedicate themselves entirely to their kingdom. A king must sacrifice everything for the sake of their Kingdom."
Artoria stood in silence, her chest tightening as the weight of his words pressed upon her. She felt as though she were drowning in a sea of expectations, of endless responsibilities. She had always known that being a king meant sacrifice, but now, as the words echoed in her mind, she realized something had changed.
"I am no longer sure," Artoria said quietly, her voice steady but filled with uncertainty. "If that is true."
Merlin's gaze seemed to sharpen, though he remained silent, waiting for her to continue.
Artoria took a slow step forward, her hand curling into a fist at her side. "My people praise me, and I can see that. But what of them?" Her voice grew stronger now, no longer just questioning but asserting, challenging even. "What of their own lives? Their love for their king... is that truly something they only give out of duty? Or is there something more?"
Merlin's expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement? Frustration? Artoria could not tell.
"I never asked for love," Artoria continued, her gaze unwavering. "But I have come to realize that it isn't a weakness to want it. It isn't a flaw to desire connection. Maybe—" She hesitated, then spoke the words that had been buried deep within her heart. "Maybe it is not only the kingdom I must protect, but the bonds between the people and their king. I cannot be just an untouchable figurehead. I want to be more than that. I am more than that."
She looked at Merlin, her eyes steady. "I have made a choice. My path does not have to be one of loneliness, nor does my kingship require my sacrifice of every bit of humanity I have left."
Merlin studied her carefully, his face unreadable. After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice quieter than before, as though considering her words for the first time. "You are more than a king, Artoria. You have always been more."
Artoria felt a warmth in her chest—an ember she had long buried. She had always believed her duty came first, that her destiny was to be the ruler, the symbol of strength. But in this moment, standing before Merlin, a man who had guided her from the shadows of her own doubts, she knew something had shifted within her.
"I thought," she said softly, "that I had to choose between being a king and being... human."
Merlin's lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile he had shown. "Perhaps you do not have to choose at all."
Artoria met his gaze. "Perhaps not."
Before she could speak further, a soft voice interrupted her thoughts—a voice that sent a warmth through her that she could not ignore.
"Artoria."
It was Arthur. His presence was unmistakable, even without his form in sight.
Artoria's heart skipped a beat, a sensation both familiar and entirely new. She turned, her gaze softening as she looked toward the voice.
Merlin chuckled lightly, a sound that seemed to shake the very air around them. "It seems your knight is calling for you." His words, though teasing, carried an underlying affection.
Artoria straightened, her chest rising with a steady breath. She could feel the pull of her own heart—one that had long been buried beneath layers of duty and resolve. And yet, here she was, finally understanding that love—connection—was not a weakness. It was what made her whole.
With a quiet nod to Merlin, she began to walk towards Arthur's voice, her steps more certain now.
"Thank you, Merlin," she whispered softly.
Merlin's voice lingered in the air, carrying an almost imperceptible tenderness. "You are not alone, Artoria. You never were."
As Artoria stepped forward, she could feel something stirring within her—something she had long kept hidden, buried under the weight of her crown and the expectations of her kingdom. And as she approached Arthur, standing in the distance with his arms outstretched, she knew that whatever lay ahead, she would face it not as a solitary king, but as someone whose heart was finally free to love.
Artoria's footsteps quickened, her heart pounding with urgency as she reached out toward Arthur. Yet, just as she was about to close the distance, an invisible force stopped her.
The barrier was not merely physical. It was metaphysical, conceptual—something woven into the very fabric of reality itself. Though it had no form, it was undeniably there, preventing her from taking even a single step further.
"Arthur!" Her voice carried urgency, edged with something raw and unfamiliar—worry. She pressed against the unseen force, her gauntleted hands meeting resistance she could not overcome.
Arthur stood just beyond the threshold, his figure bathed in a soft, ethereal glow. His arms were outstretched, but not for her.
He was accepting someone else.
Artoria's breath caught in her throat as she watched. The figure in his arms was indistinct, almost blurred by the light, but the way he held them—gentle, unwavering, with a devotion she had never seen directed at herself—made something tighten in her chest.
It was a sensation she did not recognize, yet it coiled around her heart, making it ache.
She called his name again, louder this time. "Arthur!" But he did not respond.
He did not even turn to look at her.
And that hurt more than anything else.
—
Vivian watched the scene unfold with a knowing smile, though the expression never fully reached her eyes. She stood beside Arthur, arms crossed as she observed the door Artoria had passed through, waiting.
"You seem confident that the girl-king will pass," she remarked lightly, though there was an undercurrent of curiosity in her tone.
Arthur didn't hesitate. "I trust in her."
Vivian turned to him then, her lips curving into something more thoughtful. "As your king or as your lover?"
Arthur met her gaze without faltering. "Both."
There was no hesitation in his words, no uncertainty. It was a simple truth, one he did not attempt to hide.
Vivian sighed, a flicker of something unreadable passing over her features. "Arthur..." she murmured, her voice softer now. "I have some bad news to tell you."
Arthur turned fully to face her, the shift in her tone catching his attention. There was something in her expression that he had rarely seen—genuine sorrow.
"Go on," he said.
Vivian hesitated for the briefest moment before exhaling. "The truth of your birth... and of hers."
Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained silent, waiting.
"You and Artoria," Vivian began, her voice measured, as though carefully choosing her words, "were born of the same parentage. You are siblings by birth."
Arthur's breath hitched, but he did not immediately react. His mind worked through the implications, yet something about her tone suggested that there was more—something deeper than the mere fact of shared blood.
"But," she continued before he could speak, "you are not truly alike, not in the way most siblings are. Your connection to the world, the essence that shapes your existence, is different from hers. You are tied to the Earth in a way that separates you from the constraints of mortal lineage. You and Artoria share a mother, yes, but you do not share a true biological similarity."
Arthur's brow furrowed. "Explain."
Vivian took a step forward, her eyes searching his for understanding. "You were created with a deeper bond to the land itself—your body, your essence, they do not follow the same rules as ordinary men. Artoria was chosen by fate, molded into a king, but you... you were shaped by something older, something fundamental to the world itself."
Arthur's fists clenched slightly at his sides. "Then what does that mean for us?"
Vivian smiled sadly. "It means that by the standards of mortal bloodlines, you and Artoria would be seen as siblings. But in truth, you are something more complicated than that. Your existence is not one that can be bound by simple definitions."
Arthur absorbed the words, his mind racing.
Artoria was his sibling in name, but they were not siblings in the way that the world understood. His feelings for her, the connection they had built, was not something that could be erased by bloodlines, not when they had walked the same path, carried the same burdens, understood each other in a way no one else could.
A strange sense of relief settled over him, though it did not fully take away the weight of the revelation.
"I see," he said finally.
Vivian tilted her head, watching him carefully. "And does this change anything for you?"
Arthur exhaled slowly, as though considering his answer. Then, he met her gaze with the same quiet certainty he always carried.
"No," he said simply.
Vivian's eyes softened, but she did not argue.
"Then I hope," she murmured, turning back toward the door, "that she feels the same."
Arthur glanced at the barrier beyond which Artoria still stood, his expression unreadable.
"I already know that she does."
—--
Artoria stared at the woman in Arthur's arms, and something inside her boiled. It was not the anger of a knight facing an enemy, nor the righteous fury of a king betrayed. No, it was something far more personal—far more painful.
She knew who the woman was.
Now that she looked closer, now that she allowed herself to piece the fragments together, she realized it—recognized the similarities between this woman and the girl Arthur had been speaking to just days prior. The resemblance was unmistakable.
Her voice left her throat in a growl, low and seething.
"Faye."
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. The name tasted bitter on her tongue. The rage that swelled within her was not just because of who Morgan was—it was something else, something far more raw.
Arthur was holding another woman.
It hurt.
More than any wound she had endured, more than any betrayal she had suffered. It was a pain that twisted deep inside her, unfamiliar yet undeniable.
And then, she heard her.
"You haven't realized it yet?"
Vivian's voice slithered through her mind like a whisper from the depths of something ancient. A voice not loud, not sharp, but insidious—settling into the cracks of her uncertainty, widening them.
"You aren't enough."
Artoria's breath caught in her throat.
"Not for Arthur."
The words struck like a blow to her chest.
"You only matter to humanity."
Vivian's voice was soft, almost pitying.
"Arthur's existence is the hope of the personifications of the world's concepts."
Her vision swam for a moment.
"Why would you be worth his attention?"
Her fingers trembled, nails pressing into the skin of her palm.
"Why would a little king from a little nation matter here?"
Artoria felt something inside her crack.
She had spent her entire life fighting for her people, for the ideal of kingship, for Britain. She had endured endless sacrifice, had shouldered burdens no one else could, because it was her duty.
But here—here, in this place that seemed to exist beyond kings and nations—what was she?
What was she to him?
She had thought...
She had hoped.
But—
Arthur still held Morgan in his arms, and he had not yet seen her.
Had she truly ever been enough?
Before she could move, before she could even breathe, she heard his voice again.
"I love you, Artoria."
Arthur had said it without hesitation. With certainty. As though it were a truth as absolute as the rising sun.
Yet she had doubted him.
How could she?
The doubt gnawed at her, but the answer had been there all along.
"I matter. I matter to him."
She spoke the words aloud, and they rang with finality, with conviction. The hesitation that had lingered in her heart dissipated like mist in the morning light.
Vivian, who had been watching in silence, finally stirred at her outburst. There was something unreadable in her expression before she inclined her head ever so slightly.
"Then take the spear."
Her voice was softer now, yet it carried the weight of the world.
"Take the spear, the existential pillar, conceptually represented by the invisible tower that holds reality together. Become the guardian of humanity's dominance over the planet."
Artoria turned as the weapon appeared before her.
It was breathtaking.
A lance that shimmered with divine radiance, its ice-blue blade glinting like the purest crystal. Its form was both ethereal and unshakable, wrapped in intricate silver latticework that only enhanced its mystical beauty.
It was not simply a weapon—it was Rhongomyniad.
A spear that was both a pillar and a seal, meant to uphold the balance of the world itself.
Vivian stepped closer, her presence an echo of fate itself.
"Take it, and you will not merely be a king. You will be something greater—beyond human limitations, beyond even what history would call a ruler."
But then—
"Or forsake that."
A second voice, strong and resolute, cut through the air.
Artoria turned, and there it was.
A blade, equal in magnificence yet different in nature.
Its silvered steel gleamed with a celestial brilliance, its gold and blue crossguard curling into the shape of an elegant crest—regal, unbreakable. It radiated an overwhelming presence, as if it alone could stand against the end of the world itself.
"A blade for a true King."
"Excalibur."
"The ultimate sword of defense, forged not just for battle, but to protect against the ruin of all things."
"The sword of a planet's chosen champion."
The voices—both of them—spoke as one.
"Choose."
The weight of it all settled on her shoulders.
Rhongomyniad. A weapon that would place her as the eternal guardian, one who existed beyond mortality. A symbol of humanity's dominion over the world.
Excalibur. The blade of a king, the blade of a protector. The weapon of the one chosen to stand against destruction itself.
One or the other.
But—
"Why must I choose?"
The words left her lips before she could stop them.
Silence.
Vivian's gaze sharpened. The other presence, the one who had spoken of Excalibur, remained still.
Artoria stepped forward, her eyes never leaving the weapons.
"Why must it be one or the other? Why must I forsake part of who I am to accept the other?" Her voice did not waver. "I am a king. But I am also Artoria. I am not just the symbol of humanity's reign, nor am I merely a champion of the planet's will."
She lifted her hand—
And took both.
The moment her fingers wrapped around their hilts, the world shifted.
The power that surged through her was overwhelming. The moment she touched them, it was as if the two forces—two ideals—were trying to tear each other apart. Opposing existences.
Yet she held firm.
Rhongomyniad did not reject her.
Excalibur did not shatter in her grasp.
Instead, they settled.
Balanced.
As if this had been the answer all along.
Vivian's lips parted slightly, her usual unreadable mask faltering for just a moment.
"You would take both?"
Artoria turned to her, eyes unwavering.
"Yes."
"You would walk both paths, knowing what it means?"
A small smile, quiet yet resolute, curved Artoria's lips.
"Arthur taught me that a king does not stand alone. That I do not need to abandon who I am to bear my crown."
She held both weapons firmly, their power no longer clashing but intertwining.
"I choose my people. I choose my duty. And I choose him."
Somewhere, beyond the vastness of this space, she felt Arthur's presence.
And she knew—without a doubt—
That he would always choose her in return.
—-
Artoria stepped through the grand doors, her footsteps steady despite the storm that had raged in her heart mere moments ago. In her hand, she held both Excalibur and Rhongomyniad, their weight both physical and symbolic—a testament to the decision she had made.
She had refused to choose between them, between the roles others had tried to define for her. She was both the guardian and the king, the warrior and the protector. She had forged her own path.
Behind her, Vivian's sharp gaze softened, the briefest flicker of admiration crossing her face.
"What you've done today, Artoria, is a truly great feat," Vivian murmured, her usual composed tone carrying an unspoken reverence.
Artoria did not answer.
Her focus had already shifted to the presence before her.
Arthur.
He stood there, waiting, as though he had always known what choice she would make. He said nothing at first, only watching her with that quiet, unwavering gaze of his—one that held no doubt, no question. Only understanding. Only warmth.
The moment she crossed the threshold, Rhongomyniad dematerialized, dissolving into golden motes of light.
And then—
She stepped into his open arms.
Arthur pulled her close without hesitation, one hand at the small of her back, the other gently cradling her head. His embrace was firm, steady, a silent reassurance against the overwhelming weight of everything she had just endured.
Her fingers clenched slightly against the fabric of his coat as she pressed herself against him, eyes fluttering shut.
"Arthur," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
It was not just a name—it was an anchor, a grounding force in the shifting tides of fate.
She felt the way he held her closer in response, as though he understood every unspoken thought.
"You did it," he said softly, voice full of quiet pride.
A small breath escaped her, something between a sigh and a laugh.
"I did," she admitted, the exhaustion of the moment sinking into her limbs.
Arthur shifted slightly, pressing his forehead against the crown of her head. His warmth seeped into her, steadying her even further.
"I knew you would."
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her expression unreadable at first—but then, the corner of her lips lifted ever so slightly.
"You always have too much faith in me," she murmured, her tone carrying the faintest trace of something teasing.
Arthur smiled, though there was something deeper in his gaze—something unshakable.
"Not too much," he corrected gently. "Just enough."
She let out a soft breath, shaking her head slightly, but she didn't pull away.
Neither of them moved, standing together in that quiet space between fate and choice, between kingship and humanity.
Between the world's expectations—and their own truth.