Arthur stepped onto the new path, breath steady yet heart pounding like a war drum echoing in a canyon of doubt. The air around him grew heavy, thick with an unseen force, as if the very fabric of reality shifted with each step he took. The stone beneath his boots echoed faintly, like distant thunder in a sealed cathedral. Each footfall seemed to awaken something ancient, something sacred that had long awaited his arrival.
The sanctuary faded, dissolving like mist at dawn, pulling warmth from the air as if memory itself were unraveling. A cold breeze whispered past him, tugging at his cloak like ghostly fingers, and the sudden absence of light and comfort sent a chill down his spine.
In its place, a grand throne room rose from the void—a hall resplendent in gold and precious stones, its walls lined with towering columns carved with inscriptions of kings long forgotten. A radiant chandelier of celestial fire hovered above, casting light that flickered between warmth and foreboding. Light played across the marble floor like dancing flames of judgment, shifting with every step he took forward.
The scent of incense and aged parchment filled the air, mingling with the distant murmur of a thousand voices in praise—whispered hymns of devotion that stirred something deep within Arthur's chest. The air vibrated with reverence, each note of the distant hymn like a memory from a past life resurfacing, echoing in his bones and stirring forgotten emotions.
At the far end of the room, upon a magnificent throne, he saw himself.
Arthur, robed in imperial splendor, an intricate crown of laurel and gold resting upon his brow. His posture was regal, unyielding, a ruler whose will shaped the fate of empires. He exuded an authority that felt carved from stone and fire, a living monument to dominion and control.
He inhaled sharply, a chill running down his spine.
The vision before him was not one of war or ruin—not a battlefield, not suffering, not the echoes of betrayal. It was a world of absolute order.
A world of peace.
No wars.
No strife.
No suffering.
The people lived in prosperity, their every need met. There was no hunger, no division, only unity under his rule—a perfect kingdom, a utopia realized. Streets gleamed with abundance, laughter echoed in harmony, and justice came swift and fair. Even the sick were healed. Even the forgotten were uplifted.
Arthur felt its weight.
Felt the power coursing through his veins, the near-divine authority of a supreme ruler whose mere word shaped the destiny of all. A golden current thrummed beneath his skin, intoxicating and terrifying.
It was everything he had ever fought for. Everything he had bled for.
A dream made real.
Yet… something in his soul recoiled.
A whisper of doubt.
A flicker of something wrong beneath the perfection.
Arthur clenched his fists.
Power always has a price.
He had seen it before—kings who claimed righteousness but fell to their own ambitions. He had fought men who believed themselves just, only to justify tyranny in the name of order. He remembered Constantine, whose peace had turned to iron chains. He remembered even his younger self, tempted to impose control when fear clouded wisdom.
Even Merlin, once his most trusted counsel, had believed order must be imposed.
Arthur's jaw tightened. He knew this temptation well. The line between savior and tyrant was thinner than most dared admit.
The weight of the crown pressed against his head, unseen hands urging him to accept. The whispers of the thousands who praised him grew louder, their voices urging:
"Accept it. Rule, Arthur. Lead them into an age of peace. You alone can do this."
His fingers twitched.
The vision wavered.
Was this not what he wanted?
To undo the chaos of the world? To bring back Camelot's golden age? To ensure no one suffered again?
But deep within, beneath the lure of absolute dominion, the Round Table's ideals still burned.
Justice.
Honor.
Humility.
A perfect world at the cost of free will was no world at all.
Arthur inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes, pulling his mind from the siren call of power. His voice, when it came, was steady—a declaration of defiance.
"I will not be swayed by illusions of power."
The throne shuddered.
Arthur stepped forward, rejecting the golden chains offered to him.
"My duty is to protect, not to rule. To serve, not to dominate. True peace lies not in control but in the freedom and dignity of all people."
A crack split the illusion.
The throne fractured—golden light turning to molten embers, the voices of praise fading into wretched howls.
The world shattered.
Arthur fell forward, back into the sanctuary, gasping as if he had just surfaced from drowning. His knees struck stone, breath coming in hard bursts as the phantom crown burned away from his mind.
Before him stood the Cù Sìth, its luminous eyes filled with something rare—pride.
"You have resisted the greatest temptation of all," the Guardian intoned. "You have demonstrated your unwavering moral integrity. The values of the Round Table have not faded within you."
Arthur exhaled slowly, the weight of the trial pressing into his bones like the memory of battles past. The remnants of temptation lingered like a shadow of something he had once longed for. He rubbed his temples as if warding off the echo of power that had tried to seed itself within him. His heart still pounded, not from fear, but from the realization of how easily one could be lost to the light disguised as salvation.
But in that moment, he had chosen—not power, not dominion, but the hard, often lonely road of righteousness.
The path to Pridwen lay open.
The Cù Sìth stepped aside, revealing the final stretch of the sanctuary's path. The stone corridor gleamed with a new light—soft, honest, and resolute. It shimmered with the purity of a soul tested and found true.
Arthur squared his shoulders, stepping forward—not as a conqueror, nor a ruler, but as a knight who had passed the trials and remained true to the ideals that made him worthy. With each step, he felt lighter, as if shedding centuries of silent doubt. The illusion's weight faded, and in its place rose a clarity born from pain and choice.
The trials had not just tested his courage, wisdom, and purity—they had forged his resolve anew. They had reminded him of who he was beneath the legends. A man burdened, yes—but also a man guided by conscience, driven not by glory, but by honor.
He came in search of a weapon, yet emerged with clarity—reborn in purpose.
Pridwen awaited.
And with it, the battle yet to come.