Mordred's heartbeat refused to slow. The clang of steel echoed through the courtyard, sharp and steady.
Morgana paused at the archway,
Mordred's strikes were clean, deliberate — too deliberate for a child his age, of six and ten. Sweat darkened the collar of his tunic, but his eyes burned with purpose.
"Son, you have not yet had breakfast; it is impossible to have stamina without it."
"I need to be stronger," he said between swings, "If I am to hold Excalibur one day."
Morgana's lips curved, "You hold yourself too low before the King," she said coolly.
Mordred froze, his blade hovering mid-air. "He is my uncle, and the king…" he said, turning slightly toward her. "Of course I do."
Her gaze softened, though only for a heartbeat. "And when your uncle falls, who will rise to take his place?"
Before Mordred could answer, a voice came from behind her.
"Princess."
She turned. Lancelot stood at the gate, sun glinting off the edge of his armor. He bowed his head respectfully.
"Your Highness."
Without another word, he unsheathed his sword — the true one, not the blunted practice blade — and held it out, hilt-first, to Mordred.
Mordred blinked in surprise, then sheathed his wooden sword and reached for the knight's steel. "Thank you," he said quietly.
Lancelot nodded once, stepping back.
Mordred returned to the dummy, the weight of real steel shifting his stance. Each strike rang louder, heavier. The sound filled the courtyard — the echo of a future neither of them wished to name.
Morgana watched in silence, her eyes narrowing just slightly.
"The boy is not nearly ready," Lancelot said.
"He is more than ready—if only my brother could see it with the rest of the court," she narrowed her eyes at him before returning to the pit.
The scent of wine and smoke clung to the corridor like a ghost. Morgana's heels clicked sharply against the marble, her eyes narrowing when she spotted Merlin leaning against a column, half-drunk and half-lost in thought.
"Do you know where your son is?" he slurred, one eyebrow lifting with a wry smile.
Morgana's gaze sharpened. "What did you do?"
Merlin chuckled softly, swirling his cup. "Nothing… if you know what you know—and what I do not know—then I know nothing."
And with that cryptic nonsense, he staggered off down the hall, humming to himself.
Morgana exhaled sharply. "Useless old fool," she hissed under her breath, then turned, skirts snapping behind her as she stormed through the palace.
She searched every corridor, every courtyard, every training hall. No Mordred.
By the time she reached the stables, Lancelot stood waiting, half-armored, brow furrowed.
"Still no sign?" he asked carefully.
She said nothing—just glared—and when he hesitated, her hand cracked sharply across his cheek.
"Do not ask. Ride."
They rode hard into the city, past torchlight and taverns, until the laughter led them to the red-curtained doorway of a brothel.
And there he was.
Half-dressed, hair tousled, his tunic hanging loose over one shoulder—Mordred froze mid-laugh as his mother stepped into the doorway. The entire room went silent.
"M–Mother—"
Before he could finish, Morgana seized him by the ear and yanked him out of the room.
"Mother!" he hissed, trying to cover himself while stumbling after her. "Let go!"
"Silence!" She turned on him so fast he stumbled back. "What will the King say, hmm? When word reaches him that his heir spends his nights rutting like a drunk footsoldier? Tell me, my son—what would become of you if the king weds and has a son?"
Mordred gritted his teeth, eyes burning. "But I am the heir—"
"You would be nothing but another knight guard if I hadn't fought for you!" she hissed, eyes gleaming with fury. "I—will not be sent back to that tower! You will sit on the throne. You will claim what is our birthright. Do you understand me?"
He swallowed hard, shoulders tense. "…Yes. I'm sorry."
Her voice dropped to a cold whisper. "You will not fail me." Morgana turned sharply to Lancelot, who had stood silent the entire time, gaze lowered. "Not. A. Word."
The tower stood at the edge of the sea, gray stone rising from mist and salt. The waves below crashed like the heartbeat of something ancient, something caged.
It was there that Morgana was kept — for her safety, they said. For the kingdom's peace. For Arthur's crown.
And it was there Lancelot du Lac was sent, a young knight who they could not care less about, to guard a woman the court called witch's spawn. First, he was silent, then they spoke a little.
She sat by the window, tracing sigils into the glass. He stood by the door, armor glinting, silent and unflinching.
But days became weeks. Weeks turned to months.
One evening, when the storm raged too hard for sleep, she spoke.
"Do you know what it's like," she murmured, "to be born in a cage you never asked for?"
Lancelot said nothing at first, then quietly, "I've fought in cages. But never lived in one."
She laughed softly — a bitter, broken sound. "Then you've never been royal."
After that, the silence between them changed. He brought her bread still warm from the kitchens; she read to him from her mother's old scrolls. Sometimes she taught him the old tongue — the one that lived between spells and prayers.
One winter night, he found her at the window again, shivering.
"You'll freeze," he said, offering his cloak through the bars.
"Thank you," she whispered, and she took it, draping it over her shoulders anyway.
Time softened them — not into lovers, but into something quieter, older. An understanding forged from loneliness and shared defiance. When news reached the tower that her father had remarried, Morgana smashed a mirror against the wall. Shards scattered like silver tears across the floor.
Lancelot found her there, trembling, her hand bleeding. "Don't," he said softly, wrapping her hand in cloth. "He's still your Father."
She looked at him with eyes that could have burned the world. "He deserves death."
"That is treason, Morguna!" he whispered.
Her gaze burned into his, wild and wet with tears she refused to let fall. "You know what they've written? The council—" She reached for the crumpled parchment on the floor, thrusting it at him. "He intends to marry me off, not set me free. A treaty, a bond, a womb to expand his empire. That is my father's mercy. That is his fatherly love….I do not want to…but when have I ever had the choice of refusal?
From then on, he swore to guard her — not because the crown commanded it, but because she did.
Lancelot inclined his head once, the faintest flicker of pity in his eyes—but he said nothing.