The smoke from the burning city of Britannia rose into the darkened skies, casting an ominous glow over the ruins. Morguna and Mordred's forces had breached the once-impenetrable walls, their banners flying high above the crumbled towers.
Soldiers loyal to Arthuria fought valiantly, but the overwhelming tide of betrayal and chaos was too much to withstand. "We cannot hold the gates much longer!" Gawain's voice was hoarse, raw, his armor slick with blood—too much of it his own.
Arthuria stood at the war table, staring down at the map of Britannia.
It no longer mattered. Every kingdom she had reached out to—every so-called ally, every nation that once swore fealty to the Pendragon name—had refused her. One after the other, they had turned away. She was alone.
Mordred's rebellion had driven half the knights to his side.
And now, Britannia was drowning.
"Your Majesty," Bedivere said, his voice strained, "we need reinforcements. If we hold the eastern gate, we might still—"
"There are no reinforcements," she said. Interrupted sharply. Her voice carried the weight of her frustration, exhaustion, and anger. "Every kingdom we've sent word to has refused us."
The general hesitated, his face pale. "There is… one more."
Arthuria's head snapped up, her expression darkening. "No."
The council, gathered in the room, exchanged uneasy glances.
Finally, one of the elder advisors stepped forward, his tone cautious but firm.
"Your Majesty, Babylonia is the only kingdom with the strength to rival this army. If we do not send word to King Gilgamesh—"
"I said no," she snapped, rising to her feet. The room fell silent as her voice echoed. "I will not beg a tyrant for help."
"Your Majesty—" said tentatively, "this is not about pride. It is about survival. Britannia—your people—will fall without aid."
Arthuria clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, as the walls crumbled around her and her people screamed for salvation. She found herself with no other choice.
A single candle flickering beside her. A raven perched on the windowsill, its black eyes watching her intently. The letter before her was short but deliberate, every word weighed carefully.
"There is… one kingdom left."
Her jaw clenched. She already knew. The only kingdom she had not sent word to. The only one she had refused to kneel before.
Babylonianyah. Gilgamesh, the man who had discovered her truth before anyone else. He was the last option. The last chance.
Arthuria's fingers curled into fists. She exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling into her bones. And then swiftly took a quill. Her hands did not tremble as she wrote—
To King Gilgamesh of Babylonia…
She sealed the letter, her hands trembling slightly. The weight of what she was doing—the humiliation of asking him for help—felt like swallowing a blade. But there was no other way. "Go," she whispered to the raven, tying the letter to its leg.
The bird cawed once before taking off into the night, disappearing into the darkness.
Arthuria sank into her chair, her head in her hands. She had done what she swore she never would. Now, all she could do was wait.
Gilgamesh lay on his back staring at the ceiling, half-awake, his golden hair a tousled mess against the silken pillows.
A woman beside him traced idle patterns along his bare chest, her fingers light and aimless, but his mind was already elsewhere.
And it was infuriating.
For years, he had indulged in the pleasures of his empire, taken whatever pleased him, and discarded what did not.
Women, wine, war—they had once been entertainment.
Now, they were distractions.
And it was all because of her. That woman. He was now forced to distract himself. Ten times the size. Even now, after leaving that damned feast, after cracking open her secret like a walnut. After hearing her bitter voice whisper her name into his ear like a reluctant prayer, she haunted him, in everything he did.
The second he returned to his kingdom, he summoned every concubine in his possession.
Ten women, hand-picked from the most exquisite corners in Babylonia, the most delicate, the most trained, the most willing.
And yet—
None of them did their job. The one talent they possess.
They did not smell like her.
They did not look like her.
They were not her.
And so all that was left—his only salvation—was to fall asleep and imagine her instead.
But as fate would have it—
Even that small mercy was denied to him.
A knock shattered the quiet.
Loud, Insistent, and Unwelcome.
He sighed, keeping his eyes closed. "If the city isn't burning, leave me be."
The doors creaked open anyway.
A messenger stumbled in, panting, sweat lining his brow from what must have been a frantic sprint through the palace.
The concubine, curled against the king's side, let out a huff of irritation.
"Have you no sense? You dare disturb His Majesty's rest?"
He finally cracked an eye open, crimson meeting the desperate brown of the man before him.
The messenger fell to one knee, bowing so low that his forehead nearly touched the marble floor.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but this has come from Britannia."
At that, Gilgamesh's brows twitched. Britannia. Arthuria.
A slow smirk curled onto his lips.
"And what could that noble little kingdom possibly want from me?"
The messenger hesitated, hands trembling as he offered the sealed scroll to his king as if it were an offering to spare his wife and kids.
He had none.
"It's directly from… King Arthur. Your Magestity ."
Gilgamesh took the scroll, but did not open it.
His fingers traced the wax seal—the imprint of the Pendragon sigil pressed into the hardened blue.
The concubine at his side moved, pressing herself closer, her lips grazing his collarbone.
"Your Majesty," she purred, "surely this can wait."
He chuckled, low and smooth.
"Oh, my dear," he murmured, brushing his knuckles against her cheek.
And then—
He shoved her aside.
The woman let out a soft yelp, tumbling onto the silk sheets, eyes wide with shock.
"Leave."
She blinked.
"M-My King?"
His crimson gaze snapped to her. " Do you wish to find out the consequences of making me repeat myself?"
The woman scrambled away, gathering the sheets around her as she rushed out of the chamber, not daring to look back. When the doors closed, the messenger remained on his knees, silent.
He finally broke the seal.
Gilgamesh unfolded the letter with leisure, as if he were reading an amusing story. But he swept over the words; his smirk faded.
A desperate plea.
He read it once. Then twice. By the third time, he was no longer reading.
He was feeling.
The edges of the parchment crumpled beneath his fingers, the words bleeding into his mind like ink in water.
To King Gilgamesh of Babylonia,
I write to you not as a fellow monarch, but as a king whose kingdom is falling. Britannia is under siege, and we cannot hold out much longer.
Britannia has fallen into ruin.
The banners of my ancestors are soaked in the blood of betrayal.
My people are dying, and I no longer have the numbers to hold the walls alone.
If you ever held a shred of interest in this land, in its king, in me—
Send your armies.
I know of your power and your strength. I ask not for mercy, but for aid, and I will owe you a debt I cannot repay.
If you do not, then I will meet my end on the battlefield, knowing I fought for my people until my last breath.
Arthuria Pendragon.
A slow exhale left his lips. Not Arthur.
Arthuria.
She had signed it with her true name. A name he had forced out of her in whispers and threats. A name he had never expected to see inked on a desperate plea for help.
He could see her now.
Standing on the battlefield, her golden hair unbound, her body clad not in the armor of a king, but as a warrior prepared to die for a kingdom that no longer deserved her.
The image unsettled him greatly.
Because Gilgamesh did not care for lost causes.
He did not fight for dying kings.
He did not march for the weak.
But then again—
She was not weak.
Nor was she a king.
She was Arthuria.
And they had unfinished business.
A slow smirk returned to his lips, though this time—it was sharper.
"How amusing, she is." He turned to the messenger. The man hesitated, blinking in confusion."Your Majesty?"
The king rose from his bed, his golden cloak slipping over his shoulders, his armor glinting in the candlelight.
"Gather my generals, Britannia has requested my aid," he murmured, rolling his shoulders. "It would be rude to refuse an ally."
The messenger scrambled to his feet, bowing deeply before rushing out of the chamber.
He glanced down at the letter once more before tossing it onto the nearby table. His smirk widened with each step.