The eastern sky above Camelot burned gold.
The first rays of dawn spilled over the castle walls and bathed the training courtyard in warm light, long shadows stretching across polished stone. Few were awake at this hour. Fewer still stood armored beneath the rising sun.
Sir Gawain did.
He had never feared the sun. From a young age, he had trained relentlessly under its merciless rays, first without armor, then with some, and once he earned his first full set of plate, he wore it as he trained.
Over time, he got used to the sweltering heat, the haze that constantly rose from his shining armor, and that became his strength.
While others grew tired from marching under the sun, where the heat sapped them of their strength, he was unaffected by it. He was ready to fight, and even there, his stamina showed itself in full, allowing him to fight at his full strength.
Even as his allies and enemies grew weaker and weaker.
It was thanks to this that he earned himself the title of Knight of the Sun.
Many legends linked that title with his sword, Excalibur Galatine, which allowed him to grow stronger during the day, but the truth was that he got that sword thanks to already being the Knight of the Sun.
Even now, as he stood at the center of the courtyard, eyes closed, as the light touched him.
The warmth seeped into his armor and into his bones, steady and measured, filling him with the familiar certainty of power awakening. The Knight of the Sun did not roar into battle nor leap at provocation. He rose, as the sun did—inevitable, unwavering.
He inhaled slowly, feeling the subtle surge of his gift. By noon, his strength would rival legends. At sunset, it would wane again. It was a rhythm he had long since accepted.
Or so it should have been, had been for ages, but now? It was different.
Because now it wasn't just the sun of the morning that hit him. No, beyond that, there was another light that filled the courtyard, another sun.
Him.
Gawain, Knight of the Sun, now carried with him the light of the sun itself, always bathed in the sun of noon, his strength unbeatable.
That was the blessing of his king, the preparation to enter Hell itself, or at least some realm beyond Earth, one where the sun might not shine.
With the sun at his back, he would be able to fight even the most powerful of demons, which was why his king had given him his blessing.
It was not a blessing he had accepted easily, because he clearly remembered it from the illusion his king had shown the warrior, Steve Rogers.
In another form, another version of him who answered his king's call from the Throne of Heroes, that version had helped his king do horrible acts in the name of loyalty.
Now, once more, he had this blessing, the sun always shining on him; truly, he was the Knight of the Sun, but he knew it came with a price, a heavy burden.
"It really is bright," a voice from behind him said, breaking him out of his thoughts. "But you… you don't seem to be as bright as the sun. What's wrong?"
"Ah, Gareth," Gawain said as he looked behind him.
"Yep," the youngest of his siblings said with a light tone. "What are you thinking so hard about? It's not like you to be that gloomy."
Gawain let out a sigh. "This upcoming war."
"I know," Gareth jumped about, full of energy. "I wish I could go with you all, but someone has to stay behind here to ensure nothing goes wrong."
"I'm glad you aren't," Gawain said. "It will be a dangerous war, one that will test us all."
Gareth just groaned. "That's what Agravain said as well, but I want to stand by the king and fight with the rest of you!" she proclaimed rather loudly.
Gawain couldn't help but smile at her. The fact that even facing this kind of crisis, she was still able to smile like that, to be that cheerful.
It felt like invisible clouds disappeared from the sky, allowing the warm sunlight to reach his heart. "Your desire to fight does you credit," he said. "But guarding Camelot is as vital a task as any. Without a stronghold to return to, any victory is hollow."
His sister pouted for a moment, then sighed dramatically. "Fine. But you all better come back in one piece! Especially you. No getting all gloomy again because you think you made some mistake."
"I'll do my best," Gawain promised, a faint smile gracing his lips once more. The weight had not lifted, not truly, but her presence was a reminder of what he fought for. "Now, did you come just to cheer me up, or was there a purpose?"
"Bah! Can't I just want to see my brother before he goes to fight another big war?" she said as she walked up to him.
Gawain could not help but laugh. "Of course you can."
Gareth giggled as well, before she hugged him tightly.
Gawain returned the hug, careful of his armor, but not of the pressure. He held her close for a moment, soaking in her warmth, a warmth separate from the sun's power that now infused him.
Indeed, beyond magic swords and blessings, it was their bonds that gave them the strength needed to fight against all threats to their home, their king, and their family.
-----
Two young women stood outside the door to Sir Mordred's chambers.
Both wore maid uniforms—though heavily modified. The skirts were shorter, the fabric reinforced, the seams adjusted to allow full range of motion. Practical footwear replaced delicate shoes. Hidden blades rested where garters might otherwise be.
Years ago, they had been shaped by the Red Room into assassins.
They had learned how to infiltrate palaces, poison diplomats, dismantle armed men twice their size, and vanish into crowds without leaving a trace. They had mastered posture, voice modulation, disguise, seduction, and silence.
Now they were maids.
Technically.
In practice, most of their combat skills were used for one very specific purpose.
Dodging objects thrown across the room.
The two exchanged a long-suffering glance as another loud crash echoed from within.
Something heavy struck a wall.
Then something metallic clattered to the floor.
Then came Mordred's voice.
"Where the hell did I put that—?"
Another bang.
One of the maids closed her eyes briefly.
"She's packing," the other said flatly.
Inside the room, Mordred was indeed packing.
Or attempting to.
Her chamber looked less like a knight's quarters and more like the aftermath of a localized natural disaster. Clothes lay in chaotic heaps across the floor—clean mixed with dirty in complete defiance of sorting systems. Armor pieces were scattered between discarded food wrappers, cracked training dummies, spare weapon components, half-assembled gadgets, and what might once have been a chair.
There might have been a carpet.
No one could confirm.
Mordred stood in the center of it all like the eye of a storm, green eyes blazing with manic enthusiasm.
Not some small cleanup of rebels or other lowlifes, not breaking up drunken brawls, not that she did that often. But still, she had done it once! That had to count for something.
But now, there was no doubt of that, once more she was going on an adventure with her father, and not just a small adventure like the time they went to Hell… no, that was where they were going now, before they went to France.
But honestly? Is there much difference there?
Anyway, now they were going back to Hell, and this time to kick a whole lot of demon butt! Last time it was mostly Father who got to do anything, but this time? There would be plenty for her to slash at as well.
She bent down and dug through a pile of clothing, emerging victorious with a black T-shirt featuring a stylized depiction of her armored form mid-swing, lightning crackling dramatically behind her.
She held it up at arm's length.
"Should I bring this one?" she asked the empty room, completely serious.
Silence.
"Yeah, good point," she nodded to herself. "Too impractical for long-term wear."
She tossed it over her shoulder where it landed squarely on a stack of books teetering dangerously high.
Another T-shirt followed.
Then her fingers locked around a long cloak, thick wool, deep forest green.
She paused, holding it up.
"Where did I get this?" she couldn't help but ask as she grimaced at how ugly the color was. "This doesn't fit me at all," she said and threw it over her shoulder, where it landed atop a pile of old pizza boxes.
Trash belonged with trash.
"But maybe I should bring a cloak? Could get cold," she murmured as she dug through her piles for stuff.
This campaign would be far different from the rest.
Back then, to hide her identity as King Arthur's son, she had been unable to remove her armor, even forced to wear her helm all the time when not alone.
But now that everyone knew who she was and that her father had accepted her, she didn't have to do that anymore, which meant that for the first time, she had to think about what she should wear when out of combat.
Agravain had even sent people to help her pack, but did she, Mordred Pendragon, the heir to Camelot and future king of Albion, need help with something as simple as packing?
The answer was no!
She didn't need any damn help, and she would show him that!
Damn meddlesome fool.
She was glad he wasn't going with them, or he would be nagging her all the damn time.
Once she became king, she would fire him for sure.
Still, he was right in one aspect. This was a campaign to Hell and back, and who knew how long it would take, so she needed to pack properly.
But still…
How could she know what to pack? She didn't know what they would even face.
Sure, demons, but also different kinds, so would there be frost demons? In that case, she should pack extra warm clothes. But if there were only fire demons, she should maybe bring her swimsuit.
"Oh!" she said, spotting something in the pile. "I remember this one." She pulled up a big, expensive-looking camera. "I should take this for sure, in case my phone runs out of battery, so I can take some pictures to show when we get back," she nodded to herself for being so smart.
She was willing to bet that none of the others thought about that; after all, where would they charge their phones while in magic Hell or whatever place that bald witch was preparing for them?
As for the price of the camera?
She had no idea; it was something she had confiscated from some creep tourist a while back and had decided to keep rather than hand it in.
"Should maybe bring my PSP as well," she muttered, quickly packing snacks and toys, forgetting all about clothes and other important things. But who knew how long they would be there? Might get boring.