Gilgamesh moved through the burning remnants of the fae stronghold with a singular focus. The battlefield was nothing but a distant hum in the back of his mind—his armies clashed against the fairy guards, steel meeting enchanted wood and spells erupting in bursts of light. None of it mattered. His senses, sharp as ever, led him through the corridors of the enemy's castle, deeper and deeper into the shadows where he knew she was.
He swore he heard her scream.
He could feel her.
The tremor in her heartbeat, the fraying threads of her endurance. Someone—no, something—was touching what was his. And for that, there would be no forgiveness.
He strode forward, his golden armor splattered with blood—Not His.
The torches lining the walls flickered as he passed, casting his silhouette in an eerie glow. Then, he reached it. The heart of the kingdom.
With a single push of his hand, the doors buckled inward, the enchanted locks shattering like glass.
Dust and magic exploded into the air, the stale scent of damp stone mixing with something far more rancid—fear.
"Well," the Fae King mused, "you're quicker than I expected."
Gilgamesh didn't hear him. Or, rather, he did, but the words did not matter.
And when the violet mist parted, revealing the figures of Morguna and the Fae King, a wicked grin twisted across his face.
"You dare step on my soil," Gilgamesh growled, the very ground trembling beneath him. "Take my wife. Kill my men. And expect to live?"
His Crimson eyes gleamed with something ancient, something utterly wrathful.
But Morguna had no desire for words.
With a furious scream, she unleashed her magic. The ground beneath her twisted and split, jagged stone erupting toward Gilgamesh.
The force of her attack cracked the walls of the temple behind him.
Yet the golden king barely moved.
He flicked his wrist.
The rocks shattered.
Morguna staggered, disbelief flickering in her eyes.
"Is that all?" He taunted, his voice dripping with disdain. " Now.."
But this battle was no mere clash of spells. It was a declaration of war.
"Where is my wife?" he growled, the venom in his voice undeniable.
The Fae King, tall and unyielding, gave a mocking smile. His violet eyes gleamed with a twisted sense of satisfaction.
"I'm afraid you will have to do without this treasure," the Fae King sneered. "I have ongoing plans. Ones that will no longer concern you, when I'm done with her."
And with a wave of his hand, the ground ruptured.
Vines as thick as tree trunks burst from the soil, writhing like serpents. Thorns glistened with dark magic, their jagged points dripping with a foul mist. They lunged at Gilgamesh, twisting around him, tightening.
But the Great King did not flinch.
"Futile."
The golden chains lashed out, shattering the stones mid-air before curling toward Morguna.
She leapt aside, narrowly avoiding the strike, but her confidence wavered. Cursing under her breath, her emerald eyes narrowed.
She summoned the remnants of her strength, her hands glowing with dark power as jagged shards of stone ripped from the temple floor. Crumpled against a pillar, her breathing labored.
Blood pooled beneath her from a jagged wound across her side.
Even so, her eyes gleamed with bitter defiance.
He pointed his sword at her, but her twisted smile did not waver.
"Where is the king?" His voice was low, trembling with desperation.
"She is no king—" She spat blood, her laughter bitter. "And you'll never find her."
But Bedivere wasn't here to negotiate.
He pulled a small glass vial from his cloak.
The delicate bottle shimmered with faint, golden light — a sliver of magic that pulsed in time with something distant. Something alive.
Morguna's face twisted in horror.
"No—"
"He said, his voice like steel. "And if you want him to live as you say, you will tell me where the king is. Or I will shatter the last hope you have of revival in front of your very eyes."
Her hands clenched at her side. The sheer cruelty of the threat — the unbearable possibility that he would follow through — sent a wave of fury and despair crashing over her.
She had risked everything. Bargained with the Fae. Sacrificed her very soul.
All for Mordred.
And now, it could all be undone.
"The temple," she hissed, the words dripping with venom. "Below the ruins. But it will do you no good."
Bedivere didn't waver.
"Why?"
Her gaze darkened.
"Because you'll never get past Lancelot."
The air within the ancient temple was thick with the remnants of dark magic.
The cracked stone walls pulsed faintly, the failed ritual leaving its mark on the ruined sanctuary.
And at the heart of it all — Arthuria.
And there she was.
Stripped of her dignity, her strength—Arthuria lay crumpled on the cold ground, her breath shallow, her body trembling from whatever torment they had inflicted upon her. Chains, carved with ancient fae magic, wrapped around her wrists, binding her to the wall.
Bedivere staggered inside, his body slick with sweat and blood, but his determination remained unbroken. His eyes locked onto Arthuria, a wave of relief washing over him.
"My king."
But Lancelot stepped forward, his blade raised.
"You won't take her."
The two knights circled each other, the tension crackling like lightning.
"You're a traitor, Lancelot," Bedivere growled. "And for what? The schemes of a sorceress?"
"For my son."
The clash was sudden.
Steel met steel, the force of their strikes echoing through the chamber.
Lancelot fought with brutal precision, every swing driven by years of honed skill.
But Bedivere was relentless. Despite his wounds, he fought with the desperation of a man who had nothing left to lose.
Blades locked. Sparks flew. The air thickened with the clash of their will.
But Lancelot was stronger.
With a sharp twist, he forced Bedivere against the stone wall, his sword at his throat.
"It's over," Lancelot snarled.
But Bedivere only smiled.
"Not yet."
With a sudden surge, he twisted free — and before Lancelot could react, Bedivere drove his sword through his chest.
The blade pierced cleanly through him — and into Lancelot.
The knight's eyes widened in shock as the blood-stained steel jutted from his back.
Arthuria's scream tore through the chamber.
"No!"
Bedivere gritted his teeth, his trembling hands gripping the hilt.
He held the sword firm, refusing to release it even as the life drained from his eyes.
"It was a pleasure to serve you," he whispered, his voice weak but unwavering. "My king."
And with that, both knights fell — their bodies crumpling to the floor.
Arthuria crawled forward, her sobs breaking through the silence. Blood pooled around them, staining the ancient stone, the remnants of shattered loyalty.
She screamed.
But no power could undo what had been done.
The once-glorious palace of the Fae King lay in ruins.
The air was thick with smoke and the bitter scent of scorched vines.
Cracks split through the marble floors, and golden embers floated through the air like dying stars.
And amidst the wreckage stood Gilgamesh — bloodstained, battered, but unyielding.
The Fae King staggered, his once pristine robes now torn and charred.
He leaned against a cracked pillar, his breath shallow and ragged. The violet light that once burned fiercely in his eyes flickered, his power nearly spent.
But even in defeat, his arrogance remained.
"You don't even need her power," the Fae King rasped, his voice trembling. "Why is it so important to you ?"
Gilgamesh narrowed his crimson eyes. His golden armor was streaked with dirt and blood, his hair wild from the battle. But the fire within him burned brighter than ever.
The Fae King's eyes flickered with disbelief. He coughed, his laughter twisted and hollow.
"You're in love with her, aren't you?"
A bitter chuckle escaped him as he slumped further against the broken stone.
The truth had struck like a dagger. He saw it now. The unrelenting fury. The way Gilgamesh had torn through his kingdom with no regard for consequence — all for one woman.
Gilgamesh cut him off with a harsh laugh of his own.
"Isn't that obvious?"
He did not deny it. He did not flinch.
"You are pathetic," the king sneered. "To think a great king such as you would—"
And then, with a final groan, the fractured ceiling gave way.
The Fae King's eyes widened as a mass of stone and shattered beams collapsed upon him, the weight of his own crumbling kingdom sealing his fate. The dust surged, swallowing his screams in an instant.
But Gilgamesh did not linger.
He turned.
There was only one thing that mattered now.
The ruined temple below was silent. The remnants of the failed ritual still lingered, the shattered remains of its ancient magic flickering weakly.
And in the center of it all, Arthuria remained.
The altar was stained with ash and blood, the runes carved into its stone now cracked and meaningless. Chains still bound her wrists, though the glow of the Fae King's magic had long since faded.
But it wasn't the sight of her restraints that brought the air from Gilgamesh's lungs.
It was the bodies.
Bedivere lay motionless upon the cold floor, his sword still embedded in his chest.
Blood pooled beneath him, soaking the silver cloak that once bore the crest of Britannia.
And beside him, his blade buried just as deep, was Lancelot.
The two knights who had once stood as brothers. One who died for loyalty. The other, for regret.
But neither of them would rise again.
Arthuria lay motionless, not he alter.. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow and red from tears.
The weight of it all — the loss, the pain — had crushed her.
His vision blurred red. They had touched her.
Violated. His. Wife
His Crimson eyes gleamed with something ancient, something utterly wrathful.
"Arthuria." His voice broke on her name.
She barely registered the moment he was at her side, the fury melting from his features, replaced by something raw.
Breaking the chains that held her in an instant.
He tore the crimson cape from his armor and wrapped it around her, shielding her from the cold, from prying eyes, from everything.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, kneeling, his forehead nearly pressed to hers.
Tears burned her vision.
She had been here—like this—alone. Suffering. Enduring.
And yet, she hadn't broken. She never broke. Even now, she fought. She always fought. To the bitter end.
His warriors stood victorious amid the ruins of what had once been a mighty kingdom. The Fae, once revered as untouchable, lay scattered in the dirt, their magic flickering like dying embers. Some clutched at mortal wounds, others merely stood, defeated, their gazes hollow.
This was his victory. His conquest.
He had the power to end it all. To burn their forests, to salt the very earth beneath their feet until nothing remained but dust and silence.
Would that not be justice?
For all their deceit, their arrogance, for what they had done to her—
The thought gripped him, dark and insidious. If he did this, there would be no doubt. The world would no longer whisper the rumors of his cruelty; they would carve them into stone, into history itself.
Gilgamesh, the Tyrant King. The ruler who did not conquer—he eradicated.
And perhaps that was what they deserved.
His fingers curled into a fist. But then— A soft, broken sound reached him.
He turned.
Her lips trembled. "Gil—"
She needed him.
Not as a conqueror, not as the King of Uruk. Not as the golden ruler whose name sent armies trembling.
She needed him.
Something in his chest twisted.
"—I'm sorry," His voice broke, "I'm sorry I took so long."
He reached for her, hands moving with an unfamiliar gentleness as he cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her damp skin.
His eyes roamed her, searching, frantic, the battle forgotten.
"Are you hurt?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. Her throat bobbed, and then—silent tears slipped down her cheeks.
His jaw clenched. He knew.
She had already suffered enough.
His wrath, his vengeance—it would change nothing. Destroying the Fae would not erase what had been done. It would not heal the wounds carved into her soul.
He exhaled, his hand threading through her hair, pulling her closer until her forehead rested against his collar. She could break here.
She could break with him.
And he would not let go.
Not now. Not ever.
He closed his eyes. The battlefield faded, the weight of the decision he had made settling deep in his bones. He would not be the tyrant they feared. He would be the man she needed.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, his hand cradling the back of her head as though shielding her from the horrors that surrounded them. "I'm sorry." It was all he could say.
She buried her face into his chest, the warmth of his embrace the only anchor she had left.