The battle was over, but the weight of it lingered. The citadel's ruins stretched around them, a grim testament to the destruction wrought in the clash against Vortigern. Yet, amidst the remnants of war, the Knights of the Round Table stood together, victorious.
They had made their way back to their encampment, and now, under the pale light of the moon, Artoria stood before them, offering words of recognition.
"You have all done well," she said, her voice steady, regal as ever. "Britain endures because of your valor. You have my deepest gratitude."
There was no grand speech—but each knight in attendance understood the weight of her acknowledgment.
Arthur watched her carefully from a short distance, his sharp blue eyes taking in every movement. The way her gaze swept over the knights, the almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders, the way her hand drifted—again and again—to rub at her armored lower abdomen.
His frown deepened.
Something was wrong.
It was subtle, something only those who had fought beside her for years might notice. Artoria was composed, as she always was, yet there was a stiffness to her posture, a flicker of something beneath her controlled expression. And then there was that repeated motion—the way her gloved fingers brushed against the plate of her armor, as if soothing a discomfort she refused to acknowledge.
He had seen her withstand wounds that would fell lesser warriors, endure pain without so much as a wince. For her to unconsciously react to something now meant that whatever she was feeling was significant.
Arthur was still deep in thought when the familiar sound of hoofbeats approached.
"Is there something wrong, Sir Arthur?"
Lancelot's voice was as composed as ever, but there was a note of curiosity beneath it. The knight had ridden up beside him, his tall warhorse moving with ease despite the uneven terrain. His piercing eyes studied Arthur with quiet scrutiny, as if he, too, had noticed something amiss.
Arthur hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking his head.
"No," he said, his voice even. "Everything is fine."
Lancelot's gaze lingered for a moment, as if weighing the truth of that statement, but he did not press further.
Arthur turned his eyes back toward Artoria. She had finished addressing the knights and now spoke quietly with Bedivere and Gawain, her posture still composed but betraying the same subtle signs of strain.
His fingers curled slightly at his sides.
"We should set up camp here!" Arthur's voice rang out, breaking through the murmurs of the gathered knights. His words drew their attention, and almost instinctively, their gazes flickered toward Artoria, waiting for her response.
She was silent for a moment, standing still in the fading light. Then, with a slight nod, she gave her approval.
Arthur continued, "By tomorrow, we'll reach Camelot. We'll be home."
A cheer rose from the knights, the promise of home bringing renewed energy to their weary bodies. The camp was set into motion immediately, men moving with practiced efficiency. Tents were raised, fires were lit, and within moments, the heart of their temporary stronghold began to take shape.
As expected, their King's tent was set up first. Without a word, Artoria entered, the heavy fabric falling shut behind her.
And she did not emerge.
She gave no further instructions, spoke to no one, and—most telling of all—had ordered that none disturb her.
Arthur watched this from a short distance, his gaze unreadable. He had known she was pushing herself beyond her limits, but this only confirmed it. Artoria was not the type to retreat without a word. Whatever strain Rhongomyniad had put on her body was severe, and yet she refused to acknowledge it.
That was unacceptable.
He started forward, his decision made. If she wouldn't speak of it, then he would force the conversation.
But before he could reach the entrance of the tent, a figure stepped into his path.
"Wait."
Arthur came to a stop as Gawain moved in front of him, his stance firm. His amber eyes, usually warm, were now edged with quiet resolve.
"You shouldn't go in there," Gawain said, his voice even but unwavering.
Arthur's frown deepened. He knew Gawain well—too well. Gawain was loyal beyond measure, utterly devoted to Artoria, but this wasn't simple duty. He wasn't standing here as just another knight guarding his King's privacy.
He was concerned.
Arthur's expression remained impassive, but his patience thinned. "You know of my relationship with the King, Gawain. Move."
That was a lie.
Gawain didn't truly know the depth of it. He knew that Arthur and Artoria were close—closer than most. He had seen them fight in perfect synchronicity, speak in silent understanding. But he didn't know why. He didn't know what Arthur was to her.
And Arthur had no intention of explaining it now.
Gawain, however, did not move.
"I do," he said. "And that is why I am telling you to wait." His gaze sharpened. "You think I don't see it? The way you watch over him?
Arthur didn't respond. He simply stared, unreadable.
Gawain exhaled, his expression softening just slightly.
"He's exhausted," he continued. "More than He'll admit. Whatever he's feeling, whatever he's hiding—he needs time."
Arthur's fingers twitched at his sides.
Time?
That was exactly what they didn't have.
His jaw tightened, but instead of arguing, he met Gawain's gaze with something heavier.
Gawain studied him, then, after a beat of silence, stepped aside.
Arthur didn't immediately enter the tent. He stood there for a moment, looking at the entrance, at the barrier that separated him from Artoria.
And then, without hesitation, he pushed through the flap and stepped inside.
Arthur stepped into the tent, and the first thing he saw was her.
Artoria lay sprawled on her bedroll, her body trembling with exertion. Sweat dampened her skin, her breathing was ragged, and beneath her armor, he could see the way her chest rose and fell too sharply. But what struck him most was the aura pulsing around her—golden, ethereal, divine.
It flickered in and out of visibility, an unstable force spreading uncontrollably through her body. He had seen this kind of energy before, but never like this.
His mind raced. Her mana is rejecting it.
Her own magical energy—her draconic core—was clashing violently against the divine essence, as though the two were at war inside her.
He was at her side in an instant, kneeling beside her. "Artoria," he called, voice low but urgent.
She stirred, barely managing to open her eyes. They flickered, glowing faintly in the dim light of the tent.
"…Arthur…?" Her voice was strained, breathless.
Without hesitation, he pressed a hand against her abdomen, focusing his senses.
And then he understood.
His fingers curled slightly as realization struck him like a blade to the chest.
The child.
It was reacting to her. No—not just to her, but to Rhongomyniad.
The divine aura wasn't merely lingering; it was being drawn out. The child inside her had recognized the power Artoria had wielded in battle, and now it was responding instinctively—absorbing, pulling, changing her.
His breath hitched. This is bad.
The balance of her body was already unstable due to her unique physiology. But now, with her mana and the divine essence actively clashing, her very existence was at risk. If left unchecked, the two forces would either destroy her from within… or merge.
His mind calculated quickly. Given the way the divine aura was reacting, it wouldn't take more than seven days. Seven days for the divine energy to fully settle. Seven days for her draconic mana to adapt, to stabilize, to fuse. Seven days before she became something else.
A rebirth.
His grip tightened against her abdomen.
Would she become a god? A being of Rhongomyniad's divine essence? Or something else entirely—something closer to a dragon, her original nature enhanced beyond human comprehension? He didn't know.
What he did know was that if he didn't regulate her mana, she wouldn't survive the process.
"Arthur…" Artoria's voice barely reached him. He looked up to find her eyes hazy with exhaustion, but there was something else there. Something quiet. Something fearful.
She wasn't afraid of dying. No, Artoria Pendragon had never feared death. But this… this unknown, this transformation that she had no control over…
She feared what she would become.
Arthur's gaze softened for just a moment.
"You're not dying," he murmured, pressing his other hand to her forehead. "I won't allow it."
She exhaled sharply—whether in relief or exhaustion, he wasn't sure.
"…What's happening to me?"
He hesitated. He knew the truth, but saying it aloud would make it real.
"…Your body is changing," he admitted finally. "The divine aura—Rhongomyniad's power—it's merging with you."
Artoria swallowed hard, her breath shallow. "And the child?"
Arthur hesitated again, then met her gaze directly. "The child is the reason this is happening."
A flicker of emotion passed through her eyes—too many things at once to name. Shock. Understanding. Uncertainty.
And something else.
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, her resolve settling. "Then we must ensure I survive."
Arthur nodded. "Yes. But you need to trust me."
She looked at him for a long moment before exhaling.
"…I always have."
That was all he needed.
He tightened his grip on her, allowing his own mana to intertwine with hers, stabilizing the flux as best he could. This would be a long seven days.
And at the end of it…
Artoria Pendragon would no longer be the same.
A few hours passed, and dawn broke over the camp. The golden light of morning filtered through the fabric of the tent, casting soft shadows over Arthur and the unconscious form of Artoria.
Arthur hadn't moved.
He remained beside her, ever vigilant, his palm lightly pressed against her forehead. Though her fever had not worsened, her body still radiated divine energy in unstable waves, flickering between control and chaos. He had spent the long hours stabilizing it, guiding her mana so that it wouldn't collapse under the pressure of the divine aura.
The process was slow. Frustratingly so. But he refused to leave her side.
Outside the tent, the camp was stirring. The knights were waking, and with that came the whispers. The concern.
Arthur knew it wouldn't be long before someone came looking.
Right on cue, a voice cut through his thoughts.
"Sir Arthur, are you still there?"
Gawain.
Arthur closed his eyes briefly before exhaling through his nose. He could already picture the man standing just beyond the tent flap, his expression tight with concern. Gawain was no fool—he would have noticed that something was wrong the moment Artoria failed to emerge at dawn.
"Yes," Arthur called back, his voice level. "The King has been stricken with illness. I cannot move him."
There was a pause, then the sound of armor shifting as Gawain approached the entrance. "Then I must see him."
Arthur's gaze hardened. He had expected this.
"You cannot come in." His voice was firm, unwavering. "The King has stationed me and only me to guard him and aid him through this sickness."
Silence.
Arthur could feel the hesitation on the other side of the fabric. Gawain was torn. He was loyal, first and foremost, and his devotion to Artoria was absolute. But Arthur wasn't just another knight—he was one of the few people Artoria trusted implicitly. Gawain knew that.
Still, the hesitation lingered.
"…This is highly unusual, Sir Arthur," Gawain said at last, his voice slow, measured. "The King does not fall to illness easily."
Arthur's jaw tensed.
"I know."
Another pause. This one longer.
Then, a sigh. "If it is as you say, then I shall inform the others. But know this—if the King does not rise soon, the knights will demand answers."
Arthur closed his eyes briefly. He had no doubt.
"I understand."
Gawain lingered for a moment longer before his footsteps retreated. Arthur waited until he was sure the knight was truly gone before releasing a slow breath.
He turned back to Artoria.
Her breathing had evened out slightly, but the divine aura still pulsed beneath her skin, ever-shifting.
Arthur adjusted his grip on her wrist, his gaze unwavering.
Seven days.
He had seven days to keep her alive. Seven days before whatever she was becoming fully emerged.
By the sixth day, unease had settled over the camp like an approaching storm.
The knights of the Round Table were no strangers to waiting, nor to discipline, but their patience had frayed into outright concern. On the fifth day, they had demanded to see their King.
Arthur had refused.
When words failed to ease their suspicions, he had resorted to action—erecting a bounded field around the tent. It was not an impenetrable fortress, but it was enough to keep the lesser knights at bay. The higher-ranking members of the Round Table, those steeped in mystery and power, could have broken through easily. Yet, they did not.
Instead, they chose to aid him, standing watch to ensure no one attempted to enter.
The whispers had not ceased, nor had the tension in the air. But for now, it was contained.
On the fourth day, Merlin had arrived.
The knights, weary and restless, had turned to the Magus of Flowers for answers. With a few well-placed words and his usual charm, he had soothed their concerns, though even he could not extinguish them entirely.
Then, he had stepped inside the tent.
Arthur had not reacted to his presence. He remained where he was, kneeling at Artoria's side, his hand placed just above her abdomen. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but Merlin could see it—the exhaustion lurking beneath the surface, the unwavering focus, the sheer will it took to maintain control over something so volatile.
And Artoria…
Her body was no longer simply adjusting.
It was changing.
Divine aura pulsed through her, weaving into her draconic mana, fusing and reshaping it into something new. The weight of it was staggering, pressing against the very fabric of the tent.
Merlin, despite all his knowledge, knew he could do nothing to help. He was a magus. A dreamer. A seer. But divine energy was beyond him, beyond what he could manipulate or control. This—whatever Artoria was becoming—was beyond him.
She was not turning into a Divine Spirit.
No, this was something greater.
She was ascending. Becoming a god. A true god, not merely a spirit bound by faith and legend, but a being of undeniable divinity.
Merlin walked forward, peering down at both of them before finally breaking the silence.
"How much longer, Arthur?" His voice was softer than usual, lacking its typical teasing lilt.
Arthur inhaled slowly before answering.
"Three more days," he murmured, never lifting his gaze from Artoria. "Three more days for it to stabilize."
Merlin hummed, crossing his arms. "That's cutting it close. The knights will not wait much longer. They will want proof that their King still breathes."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "I know."
Merlin studied him for a long moment before exhaling, a rare sign of frustration. "You realize what she's becoming, don't you?"
Arthur's fingers twitched slightly, but his voice remained even.
"Yes."
Merlin's gaze flickered to Artoria's sleeping form. "And when she awakens?"
Arthur finally looked up. His blue eyes were unreadable, but there was a weight behind them.
"I'll be here."
Merlin watched him for a moment longer before smiling faintly. "You always were stubborn."
Arthur didn't reply.
Instead, he turned back to Artoria, watching as her divine aura pulsed once more, growing stronger.
Three more days.
And then, she would awaken.
The Seventh Day
Outside the tent, the tension had reached a breaking point.
The knights had waited long enough.
Their King had been sealed away for a full week, guarded by Arthur alone, and their patience—once ironclad—had withered under the weight of uncertainty. Whispers had long since turned into quiet demands, and now, even the most loyal of them were beginning to question.
Gawain, ever the loyal knight, was the first to move.
"Enough waiting," he declared, voice tight with frustration. "The King may be ill, but this secrecy has gone on long enough. If Sir Arthur will not let us see him—"
"We will force our way in," Lancelot finished, already stepping forward.
Bedivere hesitated, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. "But if Arthur has done this to protect the King, then—"
"Then he will explain himself," Gawain said sharply. "If the King is truly unable to speak for himself, then we must act in his stead. Camelot cannot be left in the dark."
They had all been raised on duty.
And duty now demanded answers.
As one, the knights moved.
Then, just as they reached the threshold of the tent—
The air shifted.
A force unlike anything they had felt before rippled through the camp, silencing every breath, every thought. It was pressure, but not of mana. Not magecraft. Not even the draconic power their King had always carried.
This was different.
This was divinity.
Arthur had barely moved in the past twenty-four hours.
The closer the transformation came to completion, the more energy it demanded from him. The more his divine aura was drawn into the maelstrom of power that was Artoria's changing form.
And the child—
Greedy little parasite, Arthur thought with exhaustion, though there was no true malice in it. It was simply reality. The child had been feeding off both its mother's energy and his own, instinctively pulling on divinity as though it had every right to take it.
Which, perhaps, it did.
But that didn't mean it hadn't made Arthur's task hell.
The only sign of his exhaustion was the slight dullness in his gaze. He had spent days carefully regulating the energy within her, ensuring that neither her body nor her magic collapsed under the sheer force of the transformation.
And then—
Her eyes snapped open.
Arthur barely had time to react before her gaze locked onto him, luminous and piercing.
A shade of green so vibrant it seemed almost unreal.
The color of the King they had all known—
And yet, not.
"…Arthur."
His name left her lips, carrying an unfamiliar weight. Her voice was the same, but beneath it, something rippled.
Something greater.
Arthur exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he murmured in return, "Artoria?"
She slowly sat up, movements graceful yet uncertain, as though adjusting to a body that no longer felt entirely her own. Her breath was steady, but the divine aura rolling off her was anything but. It had settled—balanced—but it had not quieted.
Arthur, who had spent seven days in its presence, could feel the difference.
She had become.
No longer just a dragon-blooded King wielding the power of Rhongomyniad.
No longer merely a mortal touched by divinity.
She was more.
And yet, in this moment, she looked at him not as a god, nor as a ruler, but simply as Artoria.
Arthur frowned slightly as he felt the steady pull of energy against him—an unseen force siphoning away his own divinity in steady waves. Not Artoria herself, no. She had never been one to take what was not offered.
The child.
He could feel it, drawing from him without hesitation, feeding off the power like it had always been meant to do so.
A tired sigh left his lips. "You have a greedy little parasite inside you."
Artoria blinked, then looked down at herself—at the place where his hand still hovered just above her abdomen.
Realization dawned.
"…The child," she whispered.
Arthur gave her a weary look. "Yes, the child. The one that has spent the past seven days making my life significantly more difficult."
Artoria was silent for a long moment, her glowing eyes unreadable. Then—
"I see."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "That's all?"
She looked at him, a small, knowing glint in her eyes. "You already ensured my survival, did you not?"
Arthur scoffed, though there was no real bite to it. "You certainly weren't making it easy."
A small silence stretched between them, filled only by the steady hum of divine energy still settling within her body. Artoria lifted a hand, watching as golden strands of power flickered between her fingers, shifting like threads woven from the fabric of the world itself.
"…It no longer fights against me," she murmured.
Arthur watched her carefully. "And do you feel different?"
Artoria lowered her hand, closing it into a fist before finally looking at him.
"Yes."
A single word, spoken with quiet certainty.
Arthur had expected that.
But what he hadn't expected—what he hadn't accounted for—was the way she said it.
There was no hesitation.
No uncertainty.
Whatever she had become, whatever her body had transformed into, she was not struggling against it.
She had accepted it.
Arthur sighed, finally leaning back slightly. His body ached from exhaustion, his mind still adjusting to the fact that it was over. Seven days of careful regulation, of fighting against a force that could have very well killed her if left unchecked—
And now, here she was. Awake. Whole.
Something new.
And outside, the knights were waiting.
Arthur could feel their presence beyond the bounded field, their collective concern pressing against the edges of his awareness.
It wouldn't be long before they demanded answers.
Artoria must have sensed it too, because she slowly shifted, glancing toward the entrance. "The knights."
"They were about to break in before you woke up," Arthur said dryly. "You have perfect timing, as always."
Artoria exhaled softly, pressing a hand against her forehead as if to center herself. Then, she looked back at Arthur.
"…They will have questions."
Arthur's lips twitched. "That's putting it lightly."
A pause.
Then—
Artoria slowly stood, divine energy rippling around her like the sea at dawn. Arthur didn't move, watching her carefully as she adjusted to the weight of her new existence.
Finally, she turned to him.
"Then let's give them answers."
Arthur gave her a long look—then, with a tired sigh, pushed himself up as well.
He had a feeling things were about to get very complicated.
Artoria took a step forward, her movements unhurried, almost serene. The air around her shimmered subtly, the weight of something vast and unknowable pressing against the fabric of the world itself.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, watching the way the very space around her seemed to shift—no, bend—to accommodate the sheer force of her presence.
She can't tell how much divine aura she's giving off, can she?
Arthur clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to instinctively brace himself. Standing near her was like standing at the threshold of something immeasurable. The only comparison he could draw was the great fairy Vivian—no, even that felt insufficient.
This wasn't the measured, controlled divinity that Artoria had once wielded. This was something new.
And it felt like standing in the presence of a Chief God.
Arthur followed behind her as she stepped past the threshold of the tent, the golden glow of dawn catching the edges of her silhouette.
Outside, the knights were waiting.
They had been poised to storm the tent, weapons at their sides, but the instant Artoria emerged, the air shifted.
It was not something seen—it was something felt.
A pressure so overwhelming it crushed the very breath from their lungs. The knights reacted on instinct before their minds could even process what they were doing—
They bowed.
Every single one of them.
It was immediate, absolute. Some dropped to one knee, others lowered their heads in reverence, as if unable to bear the weight of looking at her directly.
Arthur frowned slightly. He had expected awe, perhaps even shock, but this—this was something else.
It's not just reverence…
It was fear.
For the first time, Arthur wondered if the knights were even capable of defying her in this state. Their loyalty had always been unshakable, but this was different. This was not loyalty alone—
This was submission.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Artoria spoke.
"I apologize for the wait," she said.
Her voice was steady, measured, perfect.
Arthur stiffened. It was her voice, and yet… it wasn't.
There was something in it—something vast and untouchable. A resonance that did not belong to a mortal, nor even a king.
Something divine.
And the knights felt it, too. Their shoulders tensed, their breath hitched—some even trembled, though whether from reverence or terror, Arthur could not tell.
Artoria continued, unaware of the sheer weight her words carried.
"I fell ill, and Sir Arthur here helped me through it, as I commanded him. Do not fret for me any longer."
Arthur glanced at her sharply.
There was nothing outwardly unnatural about her demeanor—her expression was calm, composed, as it always was. But her presence…
It was suffocating.
Like the laws of the world had quietly shifted in her favor.
She took another step forward, and the knights flinched.
Arthur's frown deepened.
They're not just awed. They're afraid.
Artoria didn't seem to notice. Or if she did, she simply ignored it. She swept her gaze over them—unintentionally pressing them further into the earth with nothing but her presence—before finishing,
"We shall continue to Camelot posthaste."
The knights did not move.
Arthur watched the way their bodies remained stiff, tense, barely daring to breathe in her presence.
That wasn't right.
The Knights of the Round Table had fought in countless wars, faced impossible odds, and stood firm in the face of overwhelming threats—yet here they were, paralyzed, as if they had been placed in the presence of something far beyond their comprehension.
Arthur exhaled through his nose, then finally broke the silence.
"You're pushing too much divinity out."
Artoria turned her head slightly, blinking at him in mild confusion. "What?"
Arthur gestured subtly toward the knights, whose rigid postures had not changed. "You're radiating power without restraint. They can't help but submit to it."
Artoria looked over the gathered knights again, this time with something resembling awareness. Their bowed forms, the tightness in their shoulders, the way some of them refused to meet her gaze directly—
Her brows furrowed slightly.
"I see," she murmured.
Arthur sighed. "You don't feel it, do you?"
Artoria was silent for a moment, as if truly assessing herself for the first time. Then, her expression softened—just a fraction—and she closed her eyes.
The weight in the air began to lift.
Slowly. Carefully.
Like a storm receding just before it could break the world beneath it.
The knights inhaled sharply as if freed from an unseen grip, shoulders sagging in quiet relief. Some looked up hesitantly, confusion and awe warring in their expressions.
Artoria opened her eyes once more, her gaze meeting theirs—this time without pressing them into submission.
"…Rise," she commanded.
And they did.
Arthur studied her carefully. She was adjusting. Learning. Even if she hadn't yet grasped the extent of what she had become, she was not blind to it.
Good.
That was good.
Artoria turned her gaze to Arthur, her eyes—brilliant green, now glowing with an almost ethereal intensity—settling on him with quiet resolve. She walked towards him, her footsteps measured, her expression unreadable.
As she drew near, she leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to a whisper, though even then, there was a weight to her words.
"Once we get back, you will have to teach me more control."
Arthur exhaled through his nose. Of course. She had realized it, even if not fully.
Her presence had nearly overwhelmed their knights—the greatest knights of the realm, men who had withstood war, calamity, and forces that shattered lesser men. Yet they had bowed, instinctively submitting under the sheer force of her divinity.
This was beyond mere adjustment. This was something new. Something Camelot itself might not be ready for.
Arthur frowned, his hand reaching out almost on instinct. He grasped her wrist, firm but not forceful, grounding himself as much as grounding her.
"I have to tell you something in private," he murmured, his tone low enough that only she could hear.
Artoria's eyes flickered with something—curiosity, perhaps, or concern—but she made no move to pull away. Instead, she regarded him carefully, as if weighing the urgency in his voice.
Then, after a beat, she asked, "Can it wait until Camelot?"
Arthur hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "It can."
Even so, he knew the words would not come easily.