The departure of Arthuria had not been a secret. She had ridden through the streets of Camelot and been lifted into the heavens by the mystical rainbow bridge of the Norse.
Nor could the actions of her Round Table be concealed; something was happening, and the entirety of Arthuria's core was focused on it.
This, in turn, meant that others — those who had long waited for a chance to act — now saw their moment, a brief window while everyone else was distracted.
Not everyone was happy with Arthuria's rule. Her reign had brought joy to the masses: she eased the burden of living, lowered the cost of everything, and supported small businesses until countless citizens began their own.
Through a blend of brilliant management and magic, she overcame problems that should have crippled her kind of rule. Even trade blockades had been blunted by her tight control of the economy.
And while these measures benefited millions — with crowds cheering her name in the streets — there were still those who were not pleased. They were few compared to those who rejoiced, but they were powerful.
The new system worked to improve the lives of the entire kingdom, while the old one had sought only to raise GDP and profits — always for the benefit of those who had controlled it.
Those people were hit hardest by Arthuria's reign. She had mostly spared the nobles who threw themselves at her feet and pledged obedience to the new order. Some even benefited from the change, their powers restored under the return of a single, absolute monarch.
Yet others were not so lucky. They lost everything and could not even protest.
Their resentment festered in silence, quietly nurtured by foreign and domestic forces who would have gladly stoked rebellion — had they dared. But with the divine might of the King of Knights looming over all, none did.
Until, at last, it was confirmed that Arthuria was gone and her knights were distracted.
Now, a group of influential figures in the old United Kingdom gathered in secret to discuss their situation.
Seated in a lavish London mansion were the rich and the formerly powerful — men like Bob Diamond, CEO of Barclays Group, and António Horta-Osório, the new CEO of Lloyds Banking Group.
Representatives from other major institutions were present as well: Goldman Sachs, Morgan Stanley, BlackRock — each still holding major assets and desperate to recover what they had lost.
3i, Apax Partners, Brevan Howard, Lansdowne Partners, British Land, Berkeley Group — every bank, investment firm, hedge fund, and property conglomerate had someone sitting at that table.
Once, the people in that room had controlled the fate of Britain. Today, they met in secret.
The air was thick with quiet anger.
Even the firelight seemed uneasy, its reflection trembling across the polished oak table — a table that had once symbolized confidence, where fortunes were shaped, governments influenced, and policies written before ministers even saw them.
Now it was little more than a relic of a fallen age.
"Three years," Bob Diamond said at last, his voice calm but edged like glass. "Three years, and she's undone everything that made this country function."
Across from him, António Horta-Osório leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Function?" he asked dryly. "You mean profitable. The economy functions just fine — for the people. Ironic, isn't it?"
Several heads turned sharply toward him. António smirked faintly, savoring the irritation. "I'm not defending her," he added. "Merely stating facts. She's achieved what our best analysts once called impossible. The pound stabilized, inflation vanished, energy's nearly free — all because she nationalized the things we spent decades selling off."
"She stole them," growled a man from the far end — a property magnate from the Berkeley Group. "You call that reform? My entire development portfolio in London — gone. She seized half of Canary Wharf as 'strategic housing land.' We weren't even compensated — just told to accept it for the good of her kingdom! Like I give a damn about this kingdom of hers!"
Bitter laughter rippled around the room.
From the side, a man with the clipped accent of the City spoke — the head of one of the old hedge funds. "The issue isn't what she took. It's that she made the people love her for it. You can't fight a monarch who feeds her peasants."
"That's exactly why we're here," said Diamond. "The old tools don't work anymore — markets, pressure, lobbyists. She burned them all down. The only thing keeping her system alive is faith. People actually believe in her. That's the weakness."
António looked up from his glass. "You're proposing propaganda?"
"I'm proposing disruption," Diamond corrected. "Faith breaks when the world feels uncertain again. Supply shocks, currency rumors, fear — those are weapons. We used them once to shape democracies; we can use them again on monarchies."
The room fell silent. Even the word monarchy carried power now, and some of them shivered at it.
From the end of the table, a representative from BlackRock adjusted his tie. "That might have worked a decade ago," he said carefully. "But she's not just a politician, Bob. She's… divine. There are witnesses — miracles, healing, light. Our analysts have seen things that defy physics. You can't short-sell a goddess."
That drew a few grim chuckles.
"Maybe not," António murmured, "but even gods need allies. And hers are away — in Asgard, no less."
At that, the room stirred.
"Yes," Diamond said softly. "Which means for the first time in years, the lion is off the throne."
He reached forward, pushing a dossier into the center of the table — a thick file stamped with a discreet sigil. "These are contacts who don't worship her. There are still governments who remember what Albion's rise cost them — America, France, even some of our old partners in the IMF. They'll listen. They want their markets back as much as we do."
Someone from Land Securities spoke, voice barely above a whisper. "You're talking about treason."
"No," Diamond said smoothly. "I'm talking about restoration."
Silence followed — the kind that felt like a blade hanging over the table.
Finally, António raised his glass. "Then let's call it what it is," he said. "A counter-reformation."
One by one, the others followed suit, glasses lifting in the dim light, their reflections rippling across the table.
"To restoration," they said quietly.
The crystal clink of glasses faded, leaving only the soft tick of a clock — the kind of sound that reminded them of when time had belonged to them.
"Restoration," muttered the man from Canary Wharf. "It sounds romantic. But she dismantled the banking charter, ended privatization, nationalized the rail, even took control of the energy grid. You can't restore that with sentiment."
Bob Diamond leaned forward. "We don't restore it. We reintroduce dependency. Her system works because everything is local, stable, self-contained. You break that—" he snapped his fingers, "—and she bleeds efficiency. If we make Albion reliant again on imports and markets, she'll need us."
"How?" asked a woman from Landsec. "She banned speculative trade. The ports are controlled by the Crown. Even foreign contracts go through Camelot's treasury."
"Smuggling," said another — a hedge-fund veteran from Brevan Howard. "We don't call it that, of course. We call it external liquidity. Use shell firms, redirect trade through neutral ports — Oslo, Dublin, Reykjavík. Get goods in under false flags. The moment Albion realizes black markets are blooming, she'll have to lift her controls to manage it. And that's when we flood the system."
António tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "And if she doesn't? She's no fool. Her knights run intelligence like MI6 once did — only better."
"Then we go for optics," said the property magnate. "Public doubt. The people love her because they think she made everything fair. But what happens when prices rise again? When shortages appear? We create the illusion of cracks. A rumor here, a whisper there — 'The King's system falters.' Crowds turn fast when the bread runs thin."
A man from Goldman Sachs tapped his pen against the table. "Or we work from the outside. The IMF and World Bank are itching to get back into Albion's books. They can't stand being cut off from an economy that large. We lobby Washington, Brussels, Berlin — convince them that Arthuria's 'closed economy' threatens global stability. Sanctions, currency freezes, international pressure."
"Won't work," said António. "Sanctions mean nothing when she doesn't use dollars or euros anymore. The Albion Crown's backed by energy, gold, and those damned magical reactors she bought off Stark. You'd have to shut down the entire world's power supply to dent her."
"Then we make it moral," murmured the woman from BlackRock. "Paint her as a tyrant. Use the language that always worked before — freedom, democracy, human rights. Find a defector, someone high-profile from her administration, and have them go public. We feed the press what they need."
There was a brief, ugly laugh. "Which press?" sneered the Berkeley magnate. "The Daily Mail was nationalized last year, and the BBC sings hymns to her before every broadcast."
"Then we start a new one," Bob Diamond said simply. "A network offshore. Servers in Iceland, funding routed through old corporate trusts. You don't need newspapers anymore — just narrative."
For a long moment, the room hummed with quiet calculation.
António spoke last, softly. "And what if none of it works? What if she's simply too strong — too beloved?"
No one answered at first. Then one of the quieter men — a thin, pale representative from an investment consultancy — leaned forward. His cufflinks glimmered like tiny obsidian eyes.
"Then we stop thinking in terms of markets and start thinking in terms of myth," he said. "Arthuria isn't a politician. She's a symbol. Symbols die one of two ways: they're discredited, or they're destroyed. If we can't do the first…"
He let the words hang, unfinished.
Diamond exhaled slowly. "Careful. Speak of treason too loudly, and even walls remember."
The pale man smiled faintly. "Then let them remember. Because if the world keeps turning her way, there won't be any walls left to whisper to."
Silence again. Only the fire crackled.
Finally, António rose, smoothing his jacket. "We'll pursue every channel — internal and external. Economic sabotage, foreign pressure, media narrative. But we do nothing overt until we're sure she's not returning soon."
Someone voiced the question they were all thinking. "And if she comes back early?"
António's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then we pray the gods of Asgard keep her busy."
The meeting broke apart in quiet fragments — coats lifted, phones checked, murmured goodnights. Outside, snow began to fall over London, coating the streets in white.
From the mansion's windows, Camelot's faint aurora shimmered on the horizon like a star that refused to die — a reminder that even in her absence, the Lion King's gaze still reached them.
(End of chapter)
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