Arthur woke alone.
Not with panic, nor with confusion— just the quiet certainty that Morgan was gone.
The place where her lap had been was empty now. The grass beneath him lay pressed flat, cool, and there lingered only a faint trace of her presence: a clean, sharp scent, like rain striking iron. It faded quickly, as if it had never meant to stay.
He sat up slowly.
His body complained— tight muscles, bruises that answered movement with dull pain— but it held. No trembling. No collapse. That alone told him how carefully she had worked to mend him.
————±————±————±————
The camp had been erased.
No embers. No disturbed earth. No careless sign she'd ever been there.
If Arthur hadn't remembered her fingers moving through his hair, steady and unhurried, he might have convinced himself it was exhaustion-made fantasy. But his body remembered better than his doubts ever could.
He rose to his feet and rolled his shoulders, testing balance. Strength hadn't fully returned, but something else had settled in its place—control. His breathing was steady.
His stance natural.
When his hand closed around his sword's hilt, the grip felt right.
He didn't draw it.
Instead, he looked to the ground where he had fallen.
Dark stains marred the grass. Too much blood. His blood—and others'.
Memory came back in fragments. Goblins swarming in uneven waves. The press of numbers. The way his arms had kept moving after his lungs burned and his legs begged him to stop. The moment he'd thought it finished—
—and then the earth trembling.
The orc.
Arthur exhaled through his nose.
"I didn't finish it," he said aloud.
The words didn't carry regret. Just fact.
————±————±————±————
He gathered his things and returned to the road.
The forest thinned as he walked, giving way to rolling land scarred by heavy passage—flattened grass, snapped brush, churned soil. These tracks were different from the goblins'.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
Arthur slowed and crouched, fingers brushing the dirt.
Boots. Iron-shod. Multiple men moving together, burdened. A cart, recently dragged.
Mercenaries—or worse.
His hand rested on his sword without thought.
————±————±————±————
He found them before midday.
They had made camp just off the road, careless in their confidence. Six men. One cart stacked with sealed crates, each marked with symbols Arthur didn't recognize. A fire burned low.
A prisoner was tied to a post.
Not a merchant. Not a soldier.
Just a boy—head lowered, shoulders tense, hands bound tight behind him. Clothes torn but not stripped. Bruised, but breathing.
Arthur stayed hidden.
Two men argued near the fire. Another kicked the boy hard enough to draw a sharp breath— no scream, just pain swallowed down. Laughter followed.
Something in Arthur settled.
Not anger.
Decision.
————±————±————±————
He stepped into the open.
Steel rasped free immediately.
"Move along," one of them snapped. "Road's closed."
Arthur stopped ten paces away. Straight-backed. Calm.
"Untie him," Arthur said.
Laughter answered him.
One man spat into the dirt. "And who are you supposed to be?"
Arthur met his gaze without blinking.
"Someone who's tired," he replied evenly. "So don't make this longer than it needs to be."
Swords lifted.
————±————±————±————
The fight ended faster than the one with the goblins.
Not because the men were weaker.
(A/N:Yeah definitely weaker 😤 ).
Because Arthur was sharper.
He didn't rush. Didn't chase openings that weren't real. Each movement was measured—cutting tendons, breaking stance, disarming where killing wasn't required.
One man's knee folded backward with a clean strike. Another lost his sword before he realized the angle had changed. When blood spilled, it was because there was no safer path through.
Two tried to run.
Arthur let them go.
The rest didn't get that choice.
————±————±————±————
When it was finished, Arthur stood among fallen men, breathing hard—not from exhaustion, but restraint.
He wiped his blade before sheathing it.
Then he turned to the prisoner.
The boy flinched when Arthur approached, then froze as the ropes were cut away.
"You're safe," Arthur said simply.
The boy stared up at him like he was seeing something unreal.
"Sh-she said you'd come," the boy whispered.
Arthur frowned. "Who?"
"The witch," the boy said quickly, fear flashing through his voice. "The silver-haired one. She told me to wait."
Arthur went still.
————±————±————±————
He helped the boy to his feet.
Morgan.
She hadn't stayed.
But she hadn't abandoned him either.
Arthur looked down the road ahead, then back once—just once—toward the place he'd woken.
The world felt heavier now. Larger. Less forgiving.
But he stepped forward anyway.
Because that was what he did.
And somewhere—he knew it as surely as he knew his own name—someone was watching, measuring not his strength, but how far he was willing to walk with it.