The battlefield was silent now. The war had not been won. It had simply been left behind.
Morguna's fingers were trembling as she brushed the blood-soaked strands of hair from her son's face. Her greatest creation. Her only wish, and now—he was dead. Her nails dug into his shoulder, her throat burning with the fury she wanted to unleash upon the world.
"The false king has fled," Lancelot muttered beside her, his voice heavy with disdain.
Morguna's teeth clenched. "Coward," she spat. "Running like a frightened girl, as if escaping fate will spare her."
But then— An idea. One so simple, so perfect, she almost laughed. "Of course," she whispered.
Lancelot blinked, unsure what she meant.
"Mordred is not lost yet." She turned, her emerald eyes burning with renewed purpose. "The fae."
He stiffened. "The fae?" he echoed, as if saying it aloud would make it more real. "Morguna, no. The boy is —gone—They will never help us. Not after what we've done. After what you've done."
"Not if we have something or..someone to bargain with." Her fingers flicked, magic curling around her like smoke. "Lancelot. If I can get him to them in time… they can bring him back."
"Or worse," Lancelot growled. "They'll twist him into something unrecognizable."
Her eyes narrowed. "I don't care what he becomes. As long as he draws breath again—and kills her as I commanded you to that night, you failed me, you failed your true king, and worse, you failed our son."
Lancelot looked down at Mordred's face. He looked peaceful in death, young, strong, filled with potential. Potential that had died too soon. But the guilt burned in his chest. Because Mordred didn't know. He didn't know Lancelot was his true father. Morguna had sworn him to silence the day he was born. And now, as he watched her cradle the boy's head once more, murmuring ancient words to preserve the body, he wondered if the silence had been a mistake.
"Now you will help me bring him back," she declared, standing tall, her cloak snapping in the wind. "We travel to the FaeKingdom."
His disapproval was clear, but he said nothing. He knew better than to question her when her mind was set. He bowed his head stiffly. "As you command."
The dark cocoon of magic shimmered over Mordred's corpse, sealing away the rot of death. The blood stopped spilling. The air chilled. This was not over. Morguna would see it through to the end. She would not bury their son. She would not accept defeat. She would not allow Arthuria to win. This was not over. She would burn everything Arthuria loved to the ground, along with anyone who got in her way.
That night, as Arthuria slept peacefully as she was recovering from her wounds, Gilgamesh found himself standing at her bedside.
The moonlight bathed her face, softening the sharp lines of her features.
For the first time since he had met her, she looked completely at peace.
He lowered himself into the chair beside her, his usual air of arrogance replaced by something quieter, something more human.
For a long moment, he simply watched her, his gaze tracing the curve of her cheek, the strength in her jawline, the faint crease in her brow that hadn't quite disappeared even in sleep.
"You're braver than anyone I've ever known," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "And so infuriatingly stubborn. But I suppose that's why I…" He paused, the words catching in his throat.
He reached for her hand, his touch uncharacteristically hesitant. Her fingers were calloused, worn from battle, but they were still delicate in his large, golden hand. He raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles with surprising tenderness.
"You deserve to be free," he continued, his voice almost breaking. "To have peace. And if I have to tear the world apart to give it to you, then so be it."
He lingered for a moment longer, his thumb brushing lightly over her hand, before he rose to his feet. "Rest, my lioness," he murmured, his lips quirking into a faint smile as he allowed himself the word. "You'll need your strength for the battles ahead."
He left the room, the soft sound of his boots fading into the quiet of the night, leaving only the moonlight and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
And at the center of it all stood a boy—no more than ten—sat alone upon the golden throne. His feet did not yet touch the ground. He was the First of his name. The first of his kind. Half Divine, Half Mortal. There was no one equal that had yet been born.
He remembered the day the crown was placed on his head before he could understand what it meant to rule. Burdened before he even had a choice. There was no celebration, only deafening silence. A silence that followed him wherever he went. His mother was a ghost he had never met. Dead the moment he drew breath.
His father—a man forever chasing power and perfection within an everlasting legacy —had ordered every trace of her erased before Gil could speak her name. No paintings. No tokens. No lullabies sung. Just a void where love should have been.
The servants flinched if he asked. The guards stared at him with a kind of dull pity that he quickly learned to despise.
He wasn't meant to be a child. He was meant to be a weapon. Gifted power from the gods while still in the womb, blessed with strength, they hoped to one day harness. A tool to bring about conquest. A pawn dressed in velvet and crimson silk. He had heard them once, speaking beyond the carved stone doors.
"When he comes of age, he will be ours. He will secure the realms under divine law. He will kneel. He will obey."
He remembered standing behind those doors, fists clenched at his sides, a boy with no one to comfort him, no one to teach him how to dream. He tried to dream once…He even wished it to be true.
Freedom
love
Maybe even peace.
Alas, there was Only rage and a name. A name whispered from the blood he never knew, and so, on the day he became king—the day destiny was set upon him—he smiled. And when the emissaries came to him, offering pacts and chains disguised as blessings, he took them, then ordered the celestial ambassadors to be banished from his court. Cut off every line of contact with the Divine Dominion. Burned the letters they sent before they touched his hands. The boy king declared war on fate.
Never to love.
Never to cherish.
At least that's what he thought.