BRITANNIA
The great doors of Britannia's throne room groaned open, the sound echoing off the high stone walls. A hush fell over the gathered nobles and knights as the figure stepped into the hall. A gust of cold air swept in from the corridor beyond, stirring the banners that hung in reverence of the Pendragon line. The golden crown rested perfectly atop the head of the king, his royal blue cloak flowing behind him as he strode forward with unshakable grace.
The Knights of the Round Table stood aside, parting in solemn reverence, each bowing their heads as the ruler of Britannia passed between them as the king took his seat upon the great throne, the ancient seat carved in the likeness of a dragon's spine.
"All hail Arthur Pendragon, King of the Northern Kingdom, First of his name." The knights, the lords, the nobles—all knelt as one. "Long live the King!" The words echoed in unison, reverberating through the vast chamber, filling the air with unwavering loyalty.
The king lifted a hand in silent acknowledgment. "My lords," he greeted, his voice measured, calm, undeniably commanding. "You may begin."
The first to step forward was Sir Lancelot, his dark hazel hair swaying when he bowed his head, his cloak draped over polished armor, his maroon gaze sharp with duty. "Lord Faisal of Syria, Your grace."
A noble lord at his side hesitated before speaking, his eyes flickering toward Morguna, the King's sister, standing as his right hand. Morguna did not miss the glance. She smirked, unimpressed. The noble cleared his throat, treading carefully. "There is… concern over recent… fae disturbances, Your Majesty," the lord said carefully, his voice tight with unease.
Morguna's smirk faltered. "Fae disturbances?"
The man cleared his throat. "I was speaking to the king."
Morguna scowled.
"Mind your tongue," Arthur said.
"You're majesty… some say there is a presence among the people. They can feel it. Unnatural winds. Blights in the fields, deaths in their sheep."
"Is that so? Perhaps the return of the fae is coming…" a voice slurred from the doorway.
All eyes turned as the dwarf stumbled into the hall, a crooked grin plastered on his face. His robes were half-buttoned, his hair a tangled storm, and a half-empty flask swung loosely from his hand.
"Merlin…"
"The great!" he announced, nearly tripping over his own cloak as he stumbled into the council chamber. "Yes, yes, it is I." He said dismissively, "I beg your pardon, your lordship, but before we start becoming—oh, what's the word… — yes, over-superstitious…" He waved his flask lazily toward the window. "Perhaps we ought to see what the people are screaming about first, hm? Before we go declaring the sky is falling."
The lord frowned. "You dare mock the council?"
"Oh, constantly," Merlin replied with a grin. "It keeps the meetings interesting." He took another swig, then added, "After all—" hiccup "—the dwarf clan is no more…"
"Not yet, it isn't," the lord muttered darkly.
"Oh yes, yes, thanks to the great Uther Pendragon, may his bones rest comfortably in peace," Merlin said, giving a dramatic bow that almost toppled him. "Still, I wouldn't get too excited—the fae haven't touched human soil since the late king's decree. Even with the man rolling in his grave that his nephew will soon claim the throne, I'm quite certain Princess Morguna has nothing to do with the missing sheep. You know if that was the case of accusation, which I wouldn't say the apple fell far from the tree…"
The lord blanched. "You dare speak of the late king in such manner—"
"Oh, please." Merlin grinned, cutting him off. "If he is listening, I am sure he's flattered—Your majesty—I beg your forgiveness." He gave the king a lazy bow that was half genuine, half mockery.
"Granted," Arthur said with a half-smirk.
Merlin did the same to Morguna. "Princess, still looking radiant, I see."
Morguna arched a brow, half-amused. "You smell like you fell into a wine barrel again."
"No, no, no—" Merlin said, lifting his flask, "I crawled into it. A matter of perspective."
The king met her gaze, offering her a brief, silent nod—a reassurance—a quiet promise. Then turned to her right, "Sir Lancelot."
He bowed his head. "Your Majesty."
"Send a group to the region Lord Faisal mentioned. Investigate the disturbances, but let there be no accusations without proof."
Lancelot's hand moved to the hilt of his sword, ever the loyal knight. "At once, my king." He motioned for the lord to follow him, their footsteps retreating into the stone corridors.
The king exhaled, allowing herself a small breath of relief. One problem settled. He thought as He turned back to the gathered council.
"Next." Merlin drawled.
This time, Lord Syria stood. "There is a matter of a 'Queen', my King."
Here we go.
The king kept his expression impassive. "The succession has been settled, Lord Syria. It was decreed almost fourteen months ago."
A flicker of movement from her side—Mordred shifting, barely concealing the amused smirk that curled at the edge of his lips. And yet—
"Nevertheless, you must marry, Your Majesty. A king without a queen invites instability—"
"Princess Amelia of the East is of noble blood, and her dowry would secure—"
"There are alliances to consider—"
The king's fingers tightened slightly against the armrest of the throne. He had been delaying this conversation since the coronation. Two years of exceeding their expectations. Two years of offering them victories, securing the kingdom's borders while prioritizing the safety of the people— and yet, it was never enough. Even with a named heir, some (most) of them still pushed for a queen. As if it would change anything. As if it would solidify the monarchy or its council. As if they truly believed a woman would make a difference. In truth, it would not. And the proof was staring them right in the face. Because Arthur Pendragon was no man at all.
For she had never been.
The king's True name was Arthuria Pendragon. A woman hidden among men, bathed in war, carrying the burden of a crown she had stolen from fate itself. A secret only Merlin and Morguna knew. Mordred did not. If he suspected anything, he likely assumed his uncle was simply unable to produce heirs. They would follow a legend, a prophecy, an untouchable figure—but not a woman. And so, she became Arthur. The lie had been necessary—a sacrifice. Excalibur had chosen her, and no one else.
Merlin had made it clear from the beginning. "The blade does not lie, Arthuria. If the people will not accept their king in truth, then give them a king they will accept in name."
Arthuria stilled her heart and remained steady. "You ask me to marry," she said, her blue eyes sharp as steel. Her tone was calm—but behind it was something cold, something lethal. "But do you ask it for the sake of the kingdom or the sake of tradition?"
Silence.
One of the older lords, Lord Armand, shifted uncomfortably before clearing his throat. "Your Majesty," he began carefully, "The role of a king is to ensure the stability of his legacy. Even with Prince Mordred as heir, a strong marriage strengthens the line of succession. It strengthens the people's trust in you."
The people's trust. How ironic.
She resisted the urge to scoff. If she revealed her identity at this very moment, it would bring nothing but division and war. She had already given them everything a man can offer —A king and more. And still, it was not enough. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows against the armrests of her throne. Her next words were spoken softly, but they carried the weight of steel.
"Let me be clear."
The chamber hushed.
"Britannia has never been safer and has no stronger king than I at the present." Her voice was cold and absolute—a command rather than a statement.
The words settled heavily in the room, sinking into the stone itself. She saw the way some of the lords tensed. The way Mordred smirked at their discomfort. She knew what they wanted. They wanted her to yield. To give them what they believed a king should be. But Arthuria was not a king of their making. She was a king in her hand. She had taken the throne through blood, through steel, through fate. And no amount of marriage, no queen, no hollow tradition would ever change that. The silence stretched. Then, Lord Syria finally spoke again, his voice weaker than before.
"Then… if not a wife, what would you have us tell the other kingdoms who seek alliances? Who expects a marriage?"
Arthuria gave him a slow, unreadable smile. "Tell them I will give them something better than a wedding." She rose from the throne, the blue Pendragon cloak billowing behind her as she moved. "I will give them a kingdom that shall never be challenged, nor fall." And with that, she turned, exiting the chamber, leaving the stunned lords in her wake.
Merlin shot back up from snoring, "Is the council over?"
Arthuria rolled her eyes. Silence stretched as the chamber dispersed as she rose to leave at last.
"Oh, that reminds me—" Merlin yawned, "You cannot trust her," he said flatly.
Arthruiastiffened. "Who?"
"Morguna,nor her son."
She felt the weight of his words, but she kept her expression calm. "Mordred is my nephew, my blood—"
"And he will be the ruin of Britannia." Merlin's voice did not waver. "I have seen in a vision. A dream, as clear as any prophecy before it."
She exhaled slowly. "I will not betray my sister like our father betrayed us both, not over a dream, not for anything."
"Then it will be your undoing." His words were absolute. "Morguna does not love you as you love her. She does not believe in this kingdom as you do. It is why you sit on the throne, but what do I know, I am just a dwarf."
Arthuria held his gaze, something sharp in her expression. "And if you are wrong?"
"Am I Ever?"
FOR THE FIRST TIME OF THE CYCLE, Arthuria exhaled, reaching back to unclasp the heavy Pendragon cloak from her shoulders, letting her identity slide to the floor—because that's exactly what it was.
A lie she wore. A performance she had perfected.
Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency, loosening the padding beneath her tunic—the extra layers that broadened her shoulders, the cloth bindings that made her appear more like the king they wanted. As she tugged the last of it away, her breath hitched slightly, her body aching from the hours spent bound, from the weight of steel and expectation. And then—a familiar presence entered the room. The scent of nightshade and embers.
Morguna stepped inside without knocking, as she always did, closing the door behind her as if she were locking the rest of the world out. For a moment, she said nothing, watching as Arthuria peeled away the last remnants of King Arthur, standing there—smaller than the legend, softer than the war-forged figure they all believed her to be. Then, slowly, she stepped forward, reaching for the final piece of padding still strapped to Arthuria's chest. She worked at the bindings with familiar ease, fingers deft and steady.
"Do you not get tired of this?" Morguna said.
"Every day," Arthuria replied quietly.
Morguna loosened the last strap, and Arthuria exhaled as the weight was lifted from her body. The pressure eased. Her ribs no longer ached. Morguna stepped back slightly, crossing her arms, tilting her head in that way she always did when she was trying to read someone.
"Then why keep playing their game?"
"Because someone has to."Arthuria met her gaze, blue eyes unwavering."At least until it is safe enough to hand over to Mordred. Nothing says easy victory like a child on a throne."
A flicker of something crossed Morguna's expression—understanding and something else unspoken. She had always known that this kingdom would never accept her nor her sister for who they really were, but neither will there be a kingdom to govern if they sensed the one who sits it was easy to defeat. She always knew that her sister would carry this burden alone, no matter how much she wished it weren't so. She turned away slightly, running her fingers along the edge of the stone table near the fireplace.
"And how long do you intend to keep this up?" she asked, voice quieter now.
Arthuria sighed."As long as I must."
Morguna huffed a short laugh, shaking her head. "You always did the impossible things," she quipped
Arthuria smirked faintly. "Leave it to Father to leave an impossible mess for his children to clean up."
Morguna chuckled.
A strange silence settled between them, the crackling fire the only sound filling the space.
"Merlin has seen a vision."
Morguna tilted her head, her dark hair falling across her shoulders. "He has many visions, Sister."
"This one concerns you. And Mordred." Arthuria said with more force.
The air shifted. A moment of silence. Then— "And what did he see?"
"He believes Mordred will bring the ruin of Britannia."
For the first time, Morguna's expression cracked. A flicker of something cold and sharp crossed her eyes. "And you believe him?"
Arthuria hesitated, just for a moment. But it was enough.
Morguna laughed, but it was not warmth. It was bitterness. Sharp-edged. "Of course you do. Because your precious Merlin says so. Because the great King Arthur would never question his beloved wizard." She turned away, stepping toward the grand window, looking out over Britannia. "You know what, Sister?" she said, her voice lower now, colder. "I am tired."
Arthuria watched her carefully. "Of what?"
"Of this game. Of waiting. Of knowing that my son is only a shadow to you, a future you do not truly intend to give him."
Arthuria stiffened. "That is not true, and you know it."
"Do I?" Morguna turned back to her, eyes burning. "What I know is the truth."
Arthuria stood straighter with poised control, her expression unreadable. Across from her, Morguna's eyes burned with something deeper than anger. The words landed deep as the silence stretched between them. Once more. Morgunascoffed, "I see. This is because of who my mother was, isn't it?"
The question hung in the air.
Artizea's fingers laced together as she met Morguna's gaze. "Of course not."
Morguna's lips curled—not in a smile, but something close to resentment."Yes, it is. He feared me; my son, they all do." She stepped away, folding her arms, "Our father beheaded her without trial for using magic to save his life—" Her eyes darkened. "And the ungrateful bastard killed her anyway."
Arthuria tensed, but not out of anger. She had always known how deeply that wound cut Morguna. Their father had ruled with iron-fisted cruelty, fearing magic so much that he would spill his own wife's blood to keep it from his kingdom. Arthuria hadn't been a thought when it happened. Alone. Despised. Punished for a bloodline she could not control. She inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
"We may be half-sisters," she said at last, voice even, "but you are still my sister. And I am not our father."
Morguna said nothing.
Arthuria did not look away. She meant what she said. She would never be like Uther. She would never see her sister as something lesser. But —she could also see the distance growing between them. A distance she could not reach across.
Morguna finally exhaled, setting her goblet down. "No." Her voice was soft—so soft that Arthuria almost missed it. Then— She stood. "You're not him." She offered a smile—but it was cold. Hollow. "Not yet anyway ."
Without another word, she turned and left the table, her footsteps sharp against the stone, rage simmering in every step.
Arthuria exhaled slowly. She did not call after her. She did not follow. Arthuria watched her go, her chest tightening, the warning from Merlin echoing in the back of her mind. "Morguna does not love you as you love her."
A part of her wanted to believe it was a lie. But as she watched her sister disappear into the shadows of the corridor, she wondered if she had already lost her long ago in the tower. If there had ever been a moment to save her at all.