The banquet had ended.
The lords and nobles had retired to their chambers or their carriages, leaving only the quiet remnants of the evening—half-emptied goblets, flickering candlelight, the lingering scent of wine and roasted meats.
As the night wound down, as the last of the guests began to retire, one final sight caught Arthuria's attention.
Merlin, the old fool, was half-drunk as always. leaning against a pillar, his staff nearly slipping from his grip as he spoke too eagerly to a timid maid."More wine," he slurred, "And perhaps something sweet to accompany it, my dear."
The maid, nervous but polite, nodded quickly and disappeared into the corridor.
Arthuria sighed. "Of course he's drunk."
Merlin caught her gaze from across the room and grinned. "A fine evening, my King!" trying to bow.
"Go to bed, Merlin."
"Yes, yes, after one more drink." He stumbled toward the staircase, disappearing toward his chambers.
She shook her head, and then—she moved with purpose. She was not done.
Not with him. She stormed through the halls, scanning for him. Her breath was steady, controlled, but beneath the surface, anger roiled like an untamed storm. She had known men like him—vain, arrogant, destructive in their pursuit of pleasure and power. And yet, none of them had ever dared to pull her mask away so effortlessly. She eventually found him waiting in the shadows of a stone archway, as if he had known she would come. Of course, he had. His Crimson eyes gleamed beneath the dim torchlight, amusement curled at the corner of his lips.
"King Gilgamesh." She said.
He tilted his head slightly, regarding her as if she were a puzzle only he could solve. "I see we are still on formalities." His tone was smooth, insufferable. "King Arthur."
Two words. Both lies.
Her spine stiffened, fingers twitching at her sides. The way he said it—mocking, deliberate—told her everything. She swallowed, her jaw tightening. "How did you know?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he took her wrist in a firm grip, his strength unrelenting as he pulled her along the corridor.
She yanked against him, heels digging into the stone. "What are you doing—"
A door loomed ahead, and before she could protest further, he shoved it open and pulled her inside. The heavy wood slammed shut behind them.
The room was dim, the only light flickering from a dying hearth. The scent of old parchment and steel filled the air, mingling with the distant perfume of rain.
Her chest heaved as she wrenched her wrist free.
"You—"
"The thing about secrets is they are supposed to be Secrets. " He leaned in, so close that his breath was warm against her ear.
"Don't go making enemies with the wrong people."
Her nails curled into her palms, threatening to tear the gloves.
"And what about you?" she shot back.
His amusement didn't waver. "What about me?"
She scoffed, stepping back, pacing like a caged lion.
"I know exactly what you are. You have no secrets because you simply don't care to hide them," she hissed, spinning on her heel to face him.
"I know all about how you're unlike anything this world has ever seen. I know how you kill unnecessarily, how many noblemen's wives you've helped yourself to before their wedding nights—" The words barely left her lips before she was silenced.
His hand wrapped around her throat.
Not to choke. Not to harm. Just enough to hold her in place. Just enough to make her feel him.
The wall met her back before she even realized he had moved. Her breath hitched, but she refused to look away, refused to show an ounce of fear.
"Get your hands off me—" she spat.
But he didn't.
Instead, his grip shifted, his thumb brushing lightly over her pulse, a calculated reminder of just how easily he could break her.
His other hand lifted—not to strike, not to push, but to touch.
With calculated ease, his fingers found the chain at the nape of her neck, the clasp that held her cloak in place.
And with a single pull—
It unraveled.
The heavy fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.
He stared at her. Truly stared.
His amusement faded, replaced by something deeper. Something more dangerous.
The curves she had hidden beneath armor were no longer a secret.
The swell of her waist, the subtle shape of her frame—details that had eluded lesser men now lay before him, undeniable.
And then—he chuckled. Soft, slow, intentional.
"You claim to know all about me," he mused, "Yet never stepped foot on my soil."
His fingers brushed against the strands of her bangs. She had no doubt kept them longer than the rest of her cropped hair—an attempt to obscure the softer lines of her face, to keep men from looking too closely. But he had noticed. Testing his theory, he pushed the strands behind her ears, feeling their weight between his fingertips. And there she was.
Completely.
"One step on yours and I know everything about you," he murmured. His voice was low, taunting, but there was something else beneath it. Something insidious."I know you fantasize about the feeling of being a woman. Free of this illusion you've created."
His hand, the one that had freed her hair, trailed downward—fingertips grazing along the fabric of her tunic. Down. Down. Until it brushed against her inner thigh, making her breath catch. "I know how you wish to be touched. Held. Caressed."
Arthuria's heart slammed against her ribs. His words were soft, seductive—a whisper of truth she refused to acknowledge. She shook her head, but her body betrayed her. A single shiver ran down her spine. He saw it, and he did not stop.
"I know the real reason you wanted to confront me," he murmured, his fingers curving slightly, teasing. "And it's not because I know your little secret."
Her hands snapped up, gripping his wrist to shove him away—but he didn't budge. His grip only tightened with both hands."It is because," he exhaled, his lips just shy of her ear, "I am the only one capable of fulfilling your deepest desires."
Heat coiled low in her stomach, warring with the fury clawing up her throat. She forced her voice steady, even as her pulse betrayed her.
"The Lioness wants to be the deer—doesn't she?" He mocked. His fingers tightened slightly against her thigh.
"You are wrong—"
"And you are a liar…" His gaze burned into hers. "In more ways than one."
She froze.
"You lie to your court. You lie to your subjects. You lie to yourself. But you cannot lie to me, Arthuria Pendragon."
A tremor ran through her. A slow, humiliating betrayal of her own body. He felt it, and he was satisfied. She sucked in a sharp breath, gathering every ounce of willpower she had left. Then—
"Get. Out." Her voice was ice and steel.
For a moment, he simply stared at her. Then—chuckled. Clearly Amused. He stepped back, releasing her as easily as he had ensnared her. "As you wish," he mused, turning towards the door. He paused just before stepping out, casting one last glance over his shoulder.
"I look forward to your next banquet," he added, voice dripping with satisfaction.
And then He was gone. Leaving Arthuria standing there, her breath uneven, her hands trembling. And her secret, no longer hers to keep.
The corridors were bathed in moonlight, shadows stretching long against the cold stone walls. The great halls, once filled with the murmurs of knights and councilmen, lay silent. But in the private chambers of the great wizard Merlin, the night had only just begun. And Morguna was waiting. She had prepared for this moment meticulously.
"Mordred will be the downfall of Britannia."
Those words had sealed his fate.
He could not be allowed to live long enough to ensure that prophecy came true. Merlin, for all his wisdom, was still a man of habit—A drunk.
Even the greatest mage in Britannia had his vices, and she would exploit them as she always did.
That night, she waited.
She watched from the shadows as he drank himself into his usual stupor, the goblets of wine dulling his mind, weakening his magic, making him vulnerable.
And when the time was right, she struck.
She disguised herself as a servant girl, wrapping her form in silks, darkening her hair, adjusting her voice into something soft, tempting.
But she kept the important parts.
The curve of her hips, the way the fabric slipped from her shoulder just enough to tempt but not expose.
She had studied men long enough to know what drew them in. And tonight, she needed Merlin weak in more ways than one.
When she entered his chambers, balancing a tray of fresh wine, she made sure to move slowly.
To let his bleary, drunken gaze wander where she wanted it to. To make him hungry for something other than power.
Merlin, sprawled on his massive bed, lifted his head lazily.
He barely glanced up when she entered.
"Ah, finally." He waved his hand lazily, his voice thick with exhaustion. "Set it there, girl."
Morguna lowered her gaze, her lips curling beneath her veil.
She poured the wine herself, her movements graceful, precise—ensuring the poison mixed evenly.
A few drops, clear as water, undetectable by scent or taste.
A simple but effective concoction, designed to paralyze his body while keeping his mind alert.
She placed the goblet before him and stepped back, bowing like the obedient servant she pretended to be.
Merlin lifted the goblet without a second thought, taking a long, slow sip.
She did not leave.
Instead, she stepped forward, her voice soft but deliberate.
"You work too hard, great wizard."
Merlin blinked at her, only now taking the time to properly look.
Her voice was different.
The way she stood, the way she moved—not a servant's posture.
He frowned slightly, rubbing his temple. "I do not recall you serving the wine before.
She smiled beneath her veil. "Perhaps you've simply never noticed me."
She reached forward, her fingers brushing his shoulder lightly—an innocent touch, but intentional.
Merlin exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. "Perhaps."
"What are you called?" he murmured, his voice already slurring.
"Ashe, it means A gift," Morguna whispered, setting the tray down."A reward for the greatest mage in all of Britannia."
He laughed—hoarse, tired, careless.
"A reward? From who?"
She smiled innocently, stepping closer, letting her fingers ghost over his bare chest.
"Does it matter?"
" It doesn't." He did not ask again as he reached for her, and Morguna let him.
Their bodies tangled in the dim torchlight.
Morguna moved slowly, deliberately, making him believe this moment was his.
She let him drink in the softness of her skin, let him fall into the illusion that he was the one taking something tonight.
But he was wrong.
Morguna was never taken.
She took.
And when she rolled on top of him, her dark hair spilling around them, Merlin did not notice the glint of triumph in her emerald eyes.
Did not notice the way her fingers moved behind his head, weaving silent spells into his wine-soaked mind.
Did not notice the venom laced within his veins until it was too late.
Morguna leaned down, her breath ghosting over his ear.
"Who knew," she whispered, her voice like silk over steel, "that there was a beast beneath the cloaks of the highest mage in Britannia?"
Merlin chuckled hoarsely, his fingers lazily trailing down her spine.
But then—
"It's a shame you have to die this way."
He stilled.
His body tensed beneath hers.
A flicker of sudden realization passed over his features, but it was already too late.
The poison had done its work.
His limbs went slack, his muscles useless against the spell she had woven into his blood.
His blue eyes widened in horror as Morguna shifted, the illusion falling away—
And he saw her for who she was.
"Morguna," he rasped, his voice strangled.
His fingers clawed at the sheets, at her wrists, at anything— but nothing moved.
His body was stone, trapped within itself, helpless.
Morguna simply smiled down at him.
"You should have stayed out of my way," She whispered, tilting his chin with her fingers.
"But you had to see, didn't you?" She mocked his vision, the words dripping from her tongue like venom.
"You just had to warn Arthuria about my son."
Her voice darkened.
"You just had to stand between us."
Merlin tried to fight it. Tried to fight her. But he couldn't.
Morguna reached behind her, withdrawing a curved dagger from the folds of her dress.
"Tell me All all-powerful Merlin," she murmured, pressing the blade to his chest."Did you see this coming?"
His breath shook. "You—"
She smiled sweetly. "Shhh."
She lifted her free hand, brushing his silver-streaked hair from his sweat-slicked forehead, almost tenderly.
Then, her expression hardened.
Her lips barely moved as she whispered the incantation.
A single, ancient spell.
And then—she plunged the dagger deep into his heart.
His mouth opened in a silent scream.
The moment the dagger pierced his skin, black veins of corruption spread across his chest, seeping into his body, draining his magic, his life, his very soul.
His eyes flickered with light, then dimmed.
The magic in his blood fought against death, but the spell carved into the blade ensured there was no escape.
His veins blackened, his body convulsing beneath her as the last of his power burned away.
Morguna watched it all.
Watched as the life dimmed from his eyes, as his body went still beneath her.
Watched as the great Merlin, the legendary seer of Britannia, the guardian of King Arthur—
Died.
And as the last breath left his lips, Morguna Pendragon threw her head back—
And laughed.