"THE GATHERING OF KINGS IS UPON US, Your Majesty." The words came from one of the elder councilmen. His beard was streaked with white, his tone solemn.
Arthuria knew what this meant. Every generation, the rulers of neighboring kingdoms would convene in a show of respect and unity. For many, it was a formality. A performance. But for a newly crowned king, it was a test. Her test.
"This will be your first," the Syrian councilman continued. "A chance to assert your presence, to forge new alliances."
She nodded. "Who will attend?"
They began listing the names. Familiar ones. Kings who had sent their sons and bastards to fight in wars. Though there was one she had little to no knowledge of.
"What of the Southern King?" she asked.
"The Tyrant?" Sir Agravane asked.
Arthuria's brow arched slightly. "Tyrant?"
A murmur spread among the council. Bedivere shifted uncomfortably. He rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying, but now his expression darkened.
"The King of the South's name is Gilgamesh, also known as the blood red king."
The name carried weight. Even those who had never laid eyes on the golden king knew of his reputation.
"What is said of him?" Arthuria's voice was calm, but the tension in the chamber thickened.
Lancelot cleared his throat. "A man of unrivaled arrogance. A ruler who held no regard for peace, only power. They say he rules without mercy," he began. "That his lands are stained with the blood of those who dared oppose him.
His father before him was no better — a tyrant who demanded the obedience of gods and men alike."
She listened, her hands clasped before her. But then —
"And his ways with women," Lancelot added, reluctance weighing heavily in his voice. "Are far worse."
Her eyes narrowed. "Elaborate."
Sir Bedivere hesitated. "He…"
Sir Kay averted his gaze. "It is said that when a noblewoman is newly wed, he demands her presence at his court. The husband has no say. Her virtue…" He paused. "Is taken by him."
A ripple of unease passed through the council.
The mere thought of it twisted something cold inside Arthuria. But she did not flinch. Her expression remained carefully composed, the steel of a ruler settling in her eyes."And you would have me stand among him?" she asked.
Lancelot shook his head. "The invitation is only tradition, Your Majesty. But…"
He needn't finish, for she already knew her decision.
"I will not sully these walls with such a king."
The words were final.
When it was over, the knights took their leave—Mordred among them. But Merlin remained. As soon as the doors shut behind them, he stepped forward, his piercing eyes locking onto Arthuria's. "I fear that may do more harm than good, your grace."
"The man is no more an ally than a madman; you ask too much of me."
"On the contrary, I ask nothing of you. You will also be surprised to know that no one else does. It is you who give in to the expectations of others…your grace," he calmly said, while swirling his wine goblet.
Arthuria looked over her shoulder, her gaze lingered for a moment, then walked away.
The grand hall of the Southern Council was heavy with tension, thick with the scent of incense and the weight of unspoken fears.
King Gilgamesh sat at the head of the table, his crimson eyes gleaming with a cold, almost detached brilliance. His fingers drummed lazily against the polished, cold gold.
A councilor—brave, or perhaps merely foolish—cleared his throat.
"My king," he said, his voice shaking slightly, "the day of the Feast of Kings is upon us. It begins in two days— Gilgamesh sat silently, golden eyes half-lidded, his chin resting on one hand. His gaze was distant, as though the council's words were no more than the hum of insects beneath his notice.
The councilor continued, his voice steady, though a flicker of nervousness touched the edges. "It would be wise, Your Majesty, to consider the benefits of attendance."
The king tilted his head in pure inner confusion, his golden hair falling like a shimmering curtain around his face. But it was the head of the council that spoke for him.
"Are you telling your king what to do?"
The member in question paled, stumbling over his words. While glancing in the king's direction.
"N-no, my king. I only meant—"
"Then I can only assume you think so little of our king's time," he interrupted smoothly, his voice a blade, "to wish him to waste it."
Another councilor—older, with lines of worry etched deep into his face—attempted to salvage the moment. "It is only tradition, my liege. Even your father— the former king—"
A muscle ticked in Gilgamesh's jaw, and his voice cut like ice. He finally spoke.
"He is the former nothing. He does not exist."
Silence swallowed the room.
His gaze swept the table, cold as winter frost. "Where is this frivolous feast being held?"
A younger councilor licked his lips, voice trembling. "Britannia, my king."
"Britannia," he murmured, tasting the name as if it were a bitter wine. "Show me the invitation."
There was a shuffle of papers, a flurry of hands searching pockets and scrolls. The silence stretched too long. His fingers stilled against the table. His patience frayed thin.
"I do not repeat myself," he said softly, dangerously.
A messenger, young and pale, stood up, his voice cracking. "A-apologies, my king. There is none—"
The head of council snapped, "You've lost the king's invitation?!"
The messenger shook his head frantically, terror in his eyes. "No, my lord—I swear it! I swear it on all the gods—"
This made Gilgamesh rise slowly, every inch of his posture radiating regal menace. The hall fell silent save for the whisper of his robes. He approached the trembling boy with measured, deliberate steps and seized him by the collar with a single, powerful hand.
"And what gods," he asked softly, his voice velvet over steel, "would you be praying to?"
The boy's voice was a broken whisper. "No one… I was praying to no one…"
He released him, letting him collapse to the floor, and turned back to the council with the cold finality of a predator who had lost interest.
"It appears," he said, his voice echoing against the marble walls, "this new… King of Britannia… needs to be taught a lesson in manners. I will attend this feast for the simple fact of making it his last."
A murmur of concern rippled through the council. "But, Your Grace," one protested, "Surely this could be a misunderstanding. The boy could be lying!"
Gilgamesh smiled faintly, cruelly. "Lying is not possible in my presence. But of course," he said, his voice a silken snarl, "you would not understand… After all, you are no god."