2 DAYS LATER.
As dawn broke over Britannia, Arthuria stood before her armor. Her fingers brushed over the metal plates, the scratches and dents earned over years of war. But today, she would not wear it as King Arthur.
No more padding.
No more height-enhancing boots.
No more disguises.
If she were to die today, she would die as Arthuria Pendragon. For the first time in years, she looked in the mirror—truly looked. The world had called her a king, but she was not a king. She had never been. She was something else entirely. And today, she would fight as herself, whoever that was…
Even if it was her last battle. Even if no help would come. She stepped onto the battlefield, her sword glinting in the rising sun. And in the distance, the horns of Mordred's army rang.
Britannia's final war had begun.
Arthuria stood on the battlements, Excalibur at her side, watching as the enemy prepared for what would likely be the final assault. And then, in the distance, a golden light appeared on the horizon. At first, she thought it was the setting sun, but the light grew brighter, closer, until she could make out the banners—gold and red, adorned with symbols of Babylonia. The ground rumbled as an army unlike any she had ever seen marched toward Britannia, their armor gleaming and their weapons sharp. At the forefront was a man whose very presence seemed to command the world to kneel.
The king of Babaloniya. His golden armor shone even in the gloom of the battlefield. His crimson eyes scanned the chaos with a mixture of disdain and amusement. He held no weapon, but the power radiating from him was undeniable. When his gaze met hers, he smirked.
"Arthuria Pendragon," he called, his voice carrying over the battlefield like a roar yet dripping with sarcasm, "You asked for my aid, and here I am."
She straightened, her grip tightening on Excalibur. "I asked for your soldiers, not your arrogance."
He laughed, dismounting his horse with a graceful ease. "You cannot have one without the other," as he waded into the fray, his mere presence sending soldiers scattering.
Before she could retort, he raised his hand, signaling his army to charge. The Babylonians descended upon Morguna and Mordred's forces like a rushing tide. The once-proud banners of Britannia hung in tatters, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the distant crackle of dying flames.
Arthuria stood amidst the devastation, Excalibur gripped tightly in her bloodied hands. Her armor was dented and smeared with soot, but her crimson eyes burned with defiance as she surveyed the remnants of her fallen kingdom. She hadn't expected anyone to answer her call for aid. Britannia's fall had been swift and brutal, orchestrated by betrayal from within. When her desperate plea for reinforcements had been sent out, she had expected silence. Yet, as the battle raged, the golden banners of Babylonia appeared on the horizon, their warriors cutting through the enemy with ruthless efficiency.
And leading them was he.
Gilgamesh.
He was impossible to miss, clad in golden armor that gleamed even in the ash-choked light. His presence was magnetic, commanding. As he fought, his eyes scanned the battlefield, as if searching for something—or someone. When their gazes finally locked, the chaos around them seemed to fade, the world narrowing to just the two of them.
Arthuria braced herself as he approached her, his steps deliberate, his expression unreadable. She hadn't expected him to answer her call for aid, let alone march onto the battlefield himself.
He stood before her, towering and unshaken. His gaze swept over her, taking in the dirt, the blood, the exhaustion etched into her face. And yet, at that moment, none of it seemed to matter. That is until —
"Be my wife," he said, his voice low and resonant.
She blinked, certain she had misheard him. " I beg your pardon."
"I don't stutter," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.'Nor repeat myself."
She stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. Around them, ash fell like snow, the air heavy with the scent of death and ruin. Survivors tended to the wounded, the dead were being carried away, and her kingdom lay in ruins. And this man—this stranger—was proposing marriage?
"Look around you, Your Grace," she said sharply, gesturing to the destruction surrounding them.
"This is hardly the time for—whatever this is."
He paused, his unearthly gaze flicking over the battlefield as if seeing it for the first time. He nodded once, his expression thoughtful.
"You make a good point," he said. "This indeed may not be the most appropriate setting."
Her jaw dropped. "You don't say ."
He understands empathy? She thought.
"However," he continued.
There it is.
His tone growing firmer, "—I wish for you to be my wife. As soon as possible, preferably."
Her frustration boiled over, her grip tightening on Excalibur. "Do you even hear yourself?" She snapped.
The tyrant king stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. His expression didn't waver, his voice dangerously calm. "Perhaps I wasn't being clear enough. I wasn't exactly asking."
Arthuria stiffened, her crimson eyes narrowing. "I won't—"
"You will," he interrupted, his gaze blazing, "the same way, you will have my child."
Her mouth fell open in disbelief, her rage momentarily eclipsed by sheer shock. "I will never have your child!"
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "Correction," he said, his lips curling into a smirk. "You will have many."
The audacity of his words left her momentarily speechless.
She opened her mouth to retort, to yell, to do anything—but no words came out.
The sheer gall of the man was almost admirable.
"You're insane," she finally managed, her voice shaking with a mix of anger and incredulity.
"You have called me worse," he said, turning away as if the matter had already been settled. "I'll have preparations made for your arrival ."
Arthuria stood frozen, her mind racing. "Your efforts will be in vain!" she shouted after him. "I never agreed to this!"
He glanced over his shoulder, his smirk widening. "You will."
By the next Wave.
The battlefield was drenched in blood and ash, the once-proud banners of Britannia torn and fluttering in the smoky air. But one by one, Arthuria's knights fell. Her chest heaved, her grip on Kay's lifeless form tightening. Gareth was the first to go. Then Gawain. Then— Kay. Her kin. Her blood, the first one to bend the knee, even knowing her true identity. She held him in her arms as his breath shuddered, as the light left his eyes. The sounds of war blurred around her.
A shadow fell over her. She looked up to see Mordred. He stood tall, unshaken, his silver eyes filled with cold triumph. "The kingdom is mine,"
Arthuria rose to her feet slowly, "What kingdom? I see nothing but ash, lost, ruin!"
"It was never meant to come to such a thing had you accepted me as heir!
"You brought this on yourself." Mordred took another step forward, the flickering light casting jagged shadows over his face. "Their blood is on your hands, Dear aunt. This is what you started," he snarled.
The war had taken too much. And yet—it was not over. Not yet. She lifted Excalibur, meeting her nephew's gaze with fire in her eyes.
"Then let it be finished," she said.
Steel clashed against steel. The sound of Excalibur meeting Clarent, the roar of magic igniting the air. Arthuria and Mordred's battle had been relentless, brutal, and driven by rage. The fight was brutal, each strike a desperate attempt to outlast the other.
"This is the end, dear uncle," Mordred sneered, his sword gleaming with blood as he circled her. "The end of Arthur Pendragon and for you!"
Arthuria's jaw tightened. Her identity, long hidden under the guise of King Arthur, had been exposed just days before in the royal court. To others, it was the excuse they had been waiting for to rebel against their king.
"The throne is my mother's," Mordred growled, raising his blade. "And nothing will stop me from giving her everything that was taken from her, not even you. The Great King Arthur!"
Arthuria said nothing, her grip tightening on Excalibur. With a mighty roar, their swords clashed once more. She fought with everything she had, but she could feel her strength waning. Mordred was fiercer even for his inexperience, both of them thrust forward for the last time.
Mordred's blade pierced her side, the same moment Excalibur found its mark in his chest. They both staggered back, blood pouring from their wounds. collapsed first, gasping for air, his grip on his weapon slackening, as well as hers.
"Britannia…" he rasped, "It's mine…"
Arthuria remained standing, barely, blood-soaked in her tunic as her knees threatened to buckle, her vision blurring. His blade sank into her side, a sharp burst of pain tearing through her body. Her vision blurred, her breath staggering. And yet, she did not stop. With the last of her strength, she plunged Excalibur into his heart. The shimmering blade pierced through armor, through flesh, through bone. Mordred's eyes widened, a soft, shocked gasp leaving his lips as he staggered. And then—He collapsed.
Morguna had seen it happen. She had felt the very moment her son's soul began to slip away. Her body trembled as she limped toward him, her face twisted in horror. "No, no, no—" She collapsed beside him, her hands gripping his face, desperate, shaking.
Mordred's fingers curled weakly around her wrist, his breath shallow. "I'm sorry, Mother," he whispered, his voice hoarse, broken. "I failed you, failed to give you…What I promised you…"
Her tears fell freely, mixing with the dirt and blood staining his skin. "No, no, you didn't fail, my son. You did everything—"
His grip slackened. His eyes dulled. And then he was gone. A scream tore from Morguna's throat.
From the edges of the battlefield, Gilgamesh emerged, his armor streaked with blood. Morguna, the treacherous sorceress, lay defeated before him, along with the source of the rebellion. She clutched her son and screamed in rage.
She thought she had bested him and his army, though her magic, thought it was formidable, his knowledge of ancient caster magic had proven stronger. When his eyes scanned the field and found Arthuria, standing but barely alive, his heart clenched in a way he didn't expect.
"Arthuria!" he called, rushing to her side as she finally collapsed to her knees. He caught her just before she hit the ground, cradling her in his arms. "Stay with me," he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Look at me."
Her ocean eyes fluttered open for a moment, meeting his. He watched as they slowly lost their spark. His jaw tightened. She was more than a fallen king; she was a warrior who had given everything for a kingdom that had turned its back on her.
"You are not dying on my watch," he growled, lifting her into his arms with ease. Focused entirely on the woman in his grasp.
"You don't get to decide that," she exhaled, her lips stained red with her blood.
His eyes flashed. "Wanna bet?" His hand curled around her waist, pulling her into his arms. "We're done here." He told one of his generals. "Gather the survivors and wait for further instructions before departure."
A golden portal erupted behind them, swirling with divine power.
"My king, the enemy?"
"Leave them to rot."
Morguna's eyes blazed with fury, with hatred, with magic that crackled like a dying storm. She turned to Gilgamesh—but he was not looking at her.
He had no interest in her in the slightest.
"This isn't over!— Do you hear me, Arthuria?" She screamed in fury. "THIS ISN'T OVER!"
Without another glance, He stepped through the portal. And Britannia vanished, like a distant dream. The moment they arrived in Babylonia, the palace was in chaos.
Gilgamesh's voice thundered through the halls. "Summon the healers! NOW!"
Servants and physicians rushed forward, scrambling to attend to Arthuria, but He did not let her go. He carried her himself, past the confused guards, past the frantic advisors, past the stunned concubines who had never seen him look at a woman the way he looked at her now. He laid her on his bed, his fingers pressing against her pulse, his golden eyes narrowing.
"She will live," he growled to the healers. "Or you will not."
And as the healers worked, well into the night stretched on, He sat at the edge of the bed, watching her every breath. She would not leave him again.
Not now.
Not ever.