Chapter: The Eye of the Storm
The campfires burned low by the time Morgan stepped outside.
Above her, the stars gleamed sharp and cold against the velvet sky, the faint orange glow of Caerleon's smoldering ruins flickering on the horizon.
For the first time in weeks, the air smelled faintly of grass and damp earth instead of blood and smoke.
It should have felt like victory.
Instead it felt… quiet.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and walked through the camp. Around her, soldiers lay in haphazard rows, asleep where exhaustion had overtaken them. A few sentries saluted stiffly as she passed. One knight made the sign of the cross.
Morgan ignored them all, her boots whispering through the frost-silvered grass until she reached the edge of the ridge overlooking the valley.
Below, the battlefield was finally empty.
The dead had been carried away.
The banners—hers—stood crooked but unchallenged on the hillcrest where Artoria's standard had fallen.
It was hers.
For now.
She heard the sound of footsteps crunching behind her but didn't turn.
"I told you to rest," she murmured.
"And you told me you'd wake me if you needed anything," came the wry reply.
She glanced over her shoulder at Jaune, who was leaning against his spear like a walking stick, his right arm still wrapped in its sling. His shirt was loose at the neck, collarbone bruised and skin pale under the moonlight.
He'd cleaned up since the battle — hair washed, armor removed, though he still carried his sword belted to his hip like a habit he couldn't quite shake.
"Does your healer know you're wandering about?" she asked.
"Nope," he admitted cheerfully.
Morgan shook her head and turned back to the stars.
Jaune limped up beside her and settled himself on a boulder a few feet away, breathing heavily as he sat.
For a while they just watched the valley in silence, the cool breeze tugging at their cloaks.
Years ago…
She'd once found him perched on a rooftop in a Saxon-occupied village, staring at the moon while the rest of the world slept.
"You're going to fall and break your neck," she'd called up to him, exasperated.
He'd just grinned down at her and said:
"Some things are worth climbing for."
Jaune's voice cut softly through the quiet.
"You did it," he said.
Morgan huffed faintly. "Did I?"
"You broke her army. Sent her crawling back to Camelot. Even she couldn't deny it if she were here to see."
"She's still alive," Morgan said flatly.
"She's not here," he countered. "That's enough for tonight."
Morgan was quiet for a long time before finally answering.
"…You're not wrong," she allowed.
Then, more softly:
"But this isn't over. Not with Artoria alive in Camelot, and Vortigern still sitting his stolen throne in the East."
"Then we'll fight them when the time comes," Jaune said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Morgan shot him a sideways look. "You make it sound so simple."
He smiled faintly. "It is."
It wasn't, of course.
Morgan knew that better than anyone.
She could still feel the weight of Britain's will pressing on her skin like frostbite, tugging at her blood and bones.
This land was alive — and restless.
The crown still had no master, no final heir.
And even now she could feel Artoria's presence far to the north, a faint echo in the tapestry of magic that linked them both to the land.
It would end between them eventually.
But not tonight.
Tonight, at least, Britain was hers.
Jaune broke her reverie with a quiet chuckle.
"What?" she asked, suspicious.
"Just thinking," he said. "You really do look like a queen tonight."
Morgan rolled her eyes but felt the tips of her ears heat anyway.
"You're a terrible flatterer, Arc," she said.
"Not flattery," he said. "Just the truth."
Years ago…
They'd stopped to camp in a glade one summer night, after yet another skirmish. She'd been covered in mud and blood, her hair tangled, her dress torn.
"You're staring," she'd snapped at him.
"You're still beautiful," he'd replied without thinking, then winced as though expecting her to hex him on the spot.
She hadn't.
She'd just… looked at him for a long moment, before turning away.
Morgan's lips curved into the faintest of smiles at the memory.
He was staring at her again now.
"What is it?" she asked quietly.
"Just… wondering how you're feeling," he admitted.
She hesitated.
That was the thing about Jaune, wasn't it?
He asked.
Even when no one else dared.
Even when she didn't want to answer.
"…Tired," she finally murmured. "And angry. And…" Her hand curled at her side. "Afraid. If you must know."
He didn't laugh at her. Didn't pity her either.
Just nodded. "Fair enough."
They sat in silence again after that, the breeze sighing between them.
At some point, he reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
She froze at the touch — a little too gentle, too familiar — but didn't pull away.
"I meant what I said," he murmured.
"You say a lot of foolish things," she said.
"This one wasn't foolish."
Below them, the valley stretched out under the moon, littered with the remnants of banners and broken shields.
The Witch Queen of Britain and her golden knight sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the ridge, their shadows long and quiet.
Neither spoke again until the moon dipped below the hills.
The following morning, the news arrived.
A rider from Camelot — pale and breathless — was brought into her tent and dropped to one knee.
"Highness," he gasped. "We… we found her."
Morgan's eyes narrowed. "Where?"
"Camelot," he said. "Lady Artoria has returned there to recuperate. She's alive."
Morgan's jaw tightened, but she inclined her head. "Of course she is," she murmured coolly.
Her hand clenched around the edge of her table until her knuckles went white.
Later that day, she sent the soldier away and found Jaune polishing his sword outside the healer's tent.
She stood over him until he looked up.
"She's alive," Morgan said simply.
Jaune studied her face, then nodded slowly.
"I figured," he said.
Morgan sat beside him on the bench and stared at nothing for a while.
Finally, she asked softly:
"What would you do, Arc? If you had to choose between keeping what you'd won… or striking again to claim everything?"
Jaune was quiet for a long time before answering.
"I'd make damn sure I didn't lose you," he said finally.
She blinked at that — and found she couldn't quite meet his eyes.
That night, she dreamed of the oak tree again.
Of a boy and a girl standing at its roots, watching the sea together.
Of his hand brushing hers in the dark.
And of the distant sound of trumpets, growing louder.
The peace held for a few weeks after that.
Messengers came and went from the various lords, and she received envoys from Cornish and Welsh knights who now called her their queen — if not yet in name, then at least in allegiance.
The camp outside Caerleon grew into something halfway between a village and a fortress, with soldiers building palisades and smiths hammering iron late into the night.
Sometimes she caught Jaune helping the smiths repair shields or splitting firewood.
Other times he was with the village children, letting them touch his sword or teaching them to whistle through their fingers.
And occasionally — far more often than she liked to admit — she caught herself watching him from her tent, her hand unconsciously touching the ring of bruises on her wrist from when he'd dragged her out of the Saxon's path.
One evening, while the camp settled down and the horizon burned gold with sunset, she found him by the riverbank, washing his hands.
"You're hopeless," she called, making him jump.
He turned and grinned sheepishly.
"Caught me slacking off?" he asked.
She sniffed. "You're always slacking off."
"And yet you keep me around," he said, eyes twinkling.
Morgan rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.
Instead she sat on a nearby rock and watched the river for a moment before asking quietly:
"Do you ever regret it? Running away from your home?"
He blinked, caught off guard, and for once his smile faltered.
"…Sometimes," he admitted.
She glanced at him in surprise.
"But," he continued after a moment, meeting her gaze, "if I hadn't… I'd never have met you."
Years ago…
She'd found him trying to start a fire in the pouring rain after his first real battle, shivering under a tree and looking more like a lost farm boy than a knight.
"Why don't you just give up and go back to wherever you came from?" she'd snapped.
He'd looked up at her, teeth chattering, and said:
"Because then you'd be alone."
Morgan looked away, her cheeks warm.
"You're still an idiot," she muttered.
"I know," he said.
By the time winter crept into the hills, word had spread of Vortigern's growing power in the east — his black-bannered hosts raiding villages and burning fields as they advanced westward.
Morgan's advisors whispered of allying with Artoria to stop him, though they never dared say it where she could hear.
Every morning she stood outside her tent and felt Britain's magic thrumming under her feet — restless, waiting, unresolved.
The question of the crown still hung in the air like a blade.
Hers.
Or Artoria's.
One night, as snow began to fall in the camp and the soldiers huddled around their fires, Jaune found her awake in her tent, staring at the map by candlelight.
"You're still at it?" he asked gently.
"Of course," she murmured.
He stepped closer and set down a steaming mug of cider by her elbow.
"You can't fight both at once," he said.
She didn't look up.
"I know."
Jaune hesitated, then rested a hand lightly on her shoulder.
"You'll figure it out," he said quietly.
And for just a moment, she let herself lean into the warmth of his touch.
The next morning, she ordered her scribes to draft letters — one to Camelot, one to the lords of the eastern marches.
And then she stepped outside into the snow, her cloak swirling behind her, and lifted her chin to the cold wind.
For now, the Witch Queen and her knight would hold their ground.
And when the time came — when Artoria returned from Camelot, when Vortigern's armies reached the borders — she would face them both.
But not tonight.
Tonight she would savor the quiet.
The eye of the storm.
And the steady presence of the fool at her side.
Later, as she and Jaune stood on the ridge again, watching snowflakes drift down into the valley, he glanced at her and said:
"You know… you've never told me what you'll do if you win."
Morgan tilted her head, thoughtful.
"…Perhaps I'll build a palace on the cliffs," she said softly. "Fill it with books and gardens. Make Britain something worth inheriting."
"And if you lose?" he asked.
She glanced at him, a rare, sharp smile curving her lips.
"I don't intend to," she said.
And though the snow fell thick and heavy that night, neither of them moved from the ridge.
For now, that was enough.