As predicted, Mordred wasn't happy about having to go along with Lancelot. Among all my Knights, he was the only one she didn't like. Well maybe that wasn't correct.
She didn't like a lot of them, but the only one she hated was Lancelot.
Something she had in common with a lot of my Knights, while Lancelot was rather popular with the citizens, he was disliked by the Round Table, even Sir Lionel, a relative of Lancelot, didn't like him too much.
Because they all knew that had it not been for his actions, his betrayal, then Mordred would never have had a chance to start her rebellion.
So, they blamed him for the fall of Camelot.
"I still think we could do without this damned adulterer," Mordred continued to complain while we waited for Lancelot to change into the new outfit I had prepared for him.
Since he was a man, I had him step outside to change. Mordred and I both might have lived our lives as men, but that didn't mean that I would allow them to strip around us.
"Because we are going to France, and I wanted a local guide with us, plus someone else I can trust to get things done that doesn't include smashing people's faces in." I tried to explain, but I knew my words were just going in one ear and out the other.
Mordred scoffed, arms folded tightly across her chest as she leaned back against the stone wall. "You can trust me to get things done. I'm efficient. Fast. Explosive. What's not to love?"
"You just listed three reasons you should not be sent into delicate operations," I replied, brushing imaginary dust from the edge of the table. "Can you arrange hotel rooms for us? Order food? Ask around for information?"
"I can!" She snapped.
"Can you make yourself speak French?" I asked with a raised brow.
Mordred instantly looked like she bit into something foul, her face filled with disgust. "I… do we have to go to France?"
"That I am afraid we do, it's there the witch is hiding." I, too, didn't like it. Some primal part of me just disliked France. I knew it was strange, but I couldn't help myself.
Mordred groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Of course it's France. It's always France. Why can't evil cults ever set up shop somewhere nice? Like Italy. Or hell, even Iceland."
"You would complain about Iceland the moment we got off the plane," I said. "Either not enough ice, or too much."
"Would not!"
I chose not to dignify that with a response.
The door creaked open again, and Lancelot stepped back inside.
His footsteps were silent now, deliberate. Not heavy like a knight's, but measured like a ghost's — like someone who had learned long ago how to move without disturbing the air around him.
Gone was the shiny armor and flowing cape. In its place stood something entirely new.
He wore a deep indigo coat, almost black in the shadows, cut like a cloak but fitted like tactical gear. It swept down behind him with golden fleur-de-lis embroidered subtly at the hem.
His armor was sleek, no bulk, every piece honed for movement and silence. The plating followed the lines of his body like second skin, reinforced with enchantments and technology that made it stronger than steel without losing flexibility.
This wasn't an armored knight; this was far more like the heroes that fit into this age, like a darker Daredevil or Punisher. Someone who could fit in with the modern crowd.
His weapons had also been replaced, gone was the magical sword, the powerful Arondight. Instead he had the dream of all men.
Two bladeless hilts hung by his side, which I knew would form violet energy blades at the push of a button.
They weren't quite lightsabers; there was still a solid core that would extend out from the hilt, but it was the closest you could get.
All in all, he looked like a cooler, darker, avenging knight, a better Batman or something.
Mordred stared at him like she was trying to find something to mock and coming up dry. "...Seriously?"
Lancelot inclined his head slightly. "You disapprove."
"No," she grumbled, scowling. "I hate how good that looks."
"Indeed, that outfit came out better than expected." I noted.
"Which is unfair! I get a racing outfit, and he gets that? And he even has swords, I get a gun! How is that fair!?" Mordred complained.
I let her tantrum run its course. Mordred always needed a minute to vent before she could refocus.
"You said you wanted to bring the fire," I reminded her. "Clarent II can melt a tank. And you still have Clarent proper, sealed and stored, in case we need something less… subtle."
She crossed her arms, muttering, "Still unfair…"
Lancelot said nothing, but the faint lift at the edge of his mouth told me he enjoyed this more than he should.
"So, what about you, Father? Is the last box for you, or are you bringing someone else with us?" Mordred asked.
"No, that is for me. For this mission, it will be the three of us only." I answered, easily noticing how curious Mordred was about the last box.
Mordred stared at the third box like it might detonate if she looked away. "Well? What's in it?"
"You'll see in France," I said.
"Seriously? Seriously? You have the two of us dress up like this and keep your own cosplay hidden? Or maybe you get a super cool outfit, and we will look like clowns next to you?"
I could see that Lancelot didn't approve of the way Mordred spoke to me, it was something all the other Knights struggled with. Many kept telling her off for doing so, not that Mordred let it stop her.
But Lancelot still felt guilty about his actions back then and didn't feel like he had the right to tell someone else how to act.
"Please Mordred, I would never make you look like a clown, I feel you look great in that outfit" I told her honestly.
Mordred blinked at me, caught off guard by the compliment.
She was clearly happy about it, but she wanted to look cool in front of Lancelot, so she did her best to act like she didn't care, but how could she fool either of us?
"Tch… whatever," she muttered, glancing away. "You're just saying that so I'll shut up."
"No," I said calmly. "I'm saying it because it's true."
"Perhaps Your Majesty would like to fill in this lowly knight about the mission we are about to undertake?" Lancelot asked.
"What do you mean? You already know, even knew you got a cool outfit and all." Mordred growled.
Lancelot just gently shook his head. "I did not, it was merely a guess based on what Lady Ana told me when she summoned me."
Mordred turned to look at me, as if to confirm what he was saying.
It hurt to see how little trust there was between them, but hopefully, this mission would help them solve some of their issues. "He isn't wrong, right now you likely know more than he does, or at least you both know the same thing."
Mordred looked pleased to hear that; she no doubt liked to know more, seeing it as a sign that I trusted her more than I did with Lancelot.
In truth, I trusted them both. I knew both of their devotion to me was real. Mordred wanted nothing more than my approval, and she would do anything to prove herself before me, which included killing me and ruining everything I cared about.
Lancelot, I knew of his berserker self, and I knew the true depths of his regret over everything he caused. He was deeply loyal, and even when I, as the Goddess Rhongomyniad, wanted to end the world, he, while knowing what I did was wrong, still stood by my side, at least until the end.
There, he wanted to wake me up, to save me from myself. Though that was likely only because he knew Bedivere had hope of doing that, if not for that, I have no doubt he would have stood by as the world ended, such was his devotion.
"Hello? Anyone home?" Mordred asked and waved her hand in front of my face.
I gently pushed her hand aside. "Yes, Mordred, I am here. I was just thinking about something." I smiled at her, to which she stepped back, arms crossed, and muttered about me being weird.
Lancelot stepped forward, posture as composed as ever. "Then your majesty? About this mission?" He asked again.
I sighed. "Yes, we will head to France; there, we will try to find the witch claiming the name of Morgan. However, to do that, we will clean up the entire nation. We will seek out evil and injustices, and we shall deliver judgment upon the wicked. We shall do this until the witch herself comes before us."
The plan was simple, but that was where it was brilliant.
Lancelot gave a short nod, the ghost of a smile flickering beneath his stoic mask. Mordred, meanwhile, grinned like a wolf finally let off the leash.
"A crusade," she said. "I like it."
"No," I said quietly. "A cleansing."
-----
While preparations were completed in Albion, across the Channel, France was unraveling.
In cities and countryside alike, something dark had taken hold.
Reports of disappearances surged — not the quiet vanishings of people slipping away from debt or despair, but whole families gone overnight, neighborhoods left eerily silent.
Brutal murders followed a twisted pattern no one could decipher, scenes marked by symbols no modern mind could recognize.
Police stations were firebombed. Town halls were overrun. The government clung to control in Paris, but even there, shadows crept closer each night.
Crime soared. Cult activity spread like rot beneath the surface.
The mutants of France fared no better. Many went underground, barricading themselves in cellar sanctuaries, too frightened to fight. Others rose — inspired by Magneto's example and Albion's rhetoric — demanding sovereignty, rights, vengeance.
Chaos bred opportunity, and from it, new warlords and old villains rose again. Some wore capes. Some wore crowns. Some wore nothing at all but blood and belief.
Yet, despite these things happening, many tried to deny it, many tried to ignore all of it. The news never featured it; politicians never talked about it. Everyone just ignored the signs that something was wrong.
Instead, they cared about global issues, the Wakanda issue, the greater mutant issue, or Albion.
To those living in small villages, it was clear that the government had failed them; instead, they increasingly turned towards other people, those brave enough to stand up to the chaos.
These brave people struggled against the rising tide of darkness. However, soon enough, three more heroes would join them, and with their help, France would once more know peace.
(End of chapter)