After the council had concluded, Gilgamesh and Alexander remained, lingering in the chamber as the lords and scribes dispersed. The two kings sat at the grand table, the weight of their respective empires hanging between them.
But one particular presence had yet to leave.
Artizea.
She sat perched in her chair beside Gilgamesh, her small form barely visible over the table, but her presence was undeniable.
Alexander studied her; the unmistakable resemblance was far too entertaining to ignore. With a smirk, he leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. "So, where is your precious heir?"
Gilgamesh picked up his wine goblet and took a slow sip, "Isn't it obvious?" he finally said, setting the goblet down with a sharp clink.
Alexander glanced between him and Artizea, brows raised. "I heard you had a boy," he said, leaning back. "I'd assumed you'd declared him crown prince by now."
Gilgamesh's smirk deepened. "Crown princess."
Gilgamesh never prayed.
Not since he was five years old.
Not to the gods. Not to anything. He never begged, never pleaded—because what was the point? The gods had never given him anything he hadn't taken for himself.
But tonight, as he stood in the empty temple halls, the flames flickering with each gust of wind, he did something he swore he never would.
He prayed.
"She's a good kid. She's mine." His voice was barely above a whisper, rough and raw with emotion. His hands clenched into fists. "If I'm being punished for anything, direct your wrath toward me. But Artizea—" he paused, " She's innocent. She's not like me… she's kind, she's good…she deserves to live."
The wind howled.
The torches that once lined the temple walls sputtered—then died.
Darkness swallowed him whole. For the gods had given their answer. Nothing had changed, and the prophecy will come. And for the first time in years, he felt powerless.
Ishtar's words echoed in his mind like a cruel taunt: "You may be the king of the human realm, but you are not the king of fate. No one is. "
By the time he returned to the palace, his resolve was set. He would tell Artizea the truth. She deserved to know.
He expected to find her asleep in her chambers, but when he opened the door to his own, he found a sight that made his breath hitch.
Arthuria lay on the bed, a storybook in hand, her golden hair spilling over the pillows. And curled up beside her, nestled against her warmth, was Artizea.
His daughter.
His innocent, bright-eyed little girl, who had no idea of the cruel fate the gods had placed upon her shoulders.
"Father!" She beamed at him, her smile so wide, so pure—so unaware of the weight that threatened to crush her.
He felt the tears he had held back at the temple spill silently down his cheeks.
"Gil?" Arthuria's voice was soft, knowing.
He crossed the room in three strides, kneeling before Artizea so they were eye to eye. He placed his hands on her small shoulders, his grip firm but gentle.
"Listen to me, Artizea. Whatever happens, I want you to promise me something."
She nodded eagerly.
"I want you to be happy. I want you to experience everything this world has to offer, good and bad. I want you to be brave. To be strong.To be True ."
"Did I do something bad ?"
Arthuria's breath hitched, realization dawning in her eyes. She said nothing, but a tear threatened to fall.
"No. Never." He continued, his voice barely holding steady. "You are the best of your mother and me. And no matter what happens, I want you to know—we love you. So much. But sometimes they are things not even we can protect you from—" He hesitated. His throat tightened. He had to say it. He had to tell her—
"Your power—"
Before he could finish, Artizea shot of fromt he bed, "Gil no—" threw her arms around her, squeezing as tightly as her small arms could manage.
" Don't worry, Father, Mother, you don't have to protect me anymore. I'll get stronger, I'll train Harder. I'll make you both proud!"
His resolve was shattered.
"I didn't mean to make you sad, Papa. I'm sorry."
He pulled her closer, pressing his lips to the top of her head, holding her as though he could shield her from fate itself.
Arthuria wrapped her arms around them both, her tears slipping free.
Slowly, in the warmth of her parents' embrace, Artizea's breathing evened out. She drifted into sleep, her small hand clutching the fabric of her father's cloak.
Gilgamesh met Arthuria's gaze. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.
"I couldn't tell her."
Arthuria exhaled, brushing a hand over their daughter's hair.
"We have to one day."
"I know," he murmured, holding Artizea just a little tighter.
"But not today."
Then came another dream.
A throne, his throne, standing against the vastness of his great hall. The golden seat of power—untouched, waiting.
He stood before it, but something was wrong. There was no king. No heir.
Just silence.
And then— A figure appeared, seated upon his throne.
A girl.
Golden armor, draped in black under.. A red cape attached only to her right shoulder, draped elegantly behind her.
Her hair was short, tousled, framing her youthful face. And yet—
She wore his crown.
His.
He stepped closer, but she did not move. Her eyes were shut. And the moment he reached out—— She opened her eyes. Red. Like his own.
Burning with fire, with power, with his determination.
A girl who was his.
His daughter.
He woke with a start, his breath heavy, his heart pounding. For the first time, he was no longer afraid of the prophecy.
Something about his dreams told him to listen. They clung to his mind, the weight of fate pressing against his chest.
The girl on the throne.
His daughter.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself up from the bed, not wanting to wake his wife. She stirred slightly, golden hair spilling over the pillows, but she did not wake.
Gilgamesh silently made his way through the corridors, past the guards who bowed but dared not question where their king was going at such an hour.
He already knew where.
The princess's chamber.
He entered the nursery, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the small cradle in the center of the room.
The maids had long since retreated for the night, leaving the little princess to her dreams.
As he stepped closer, looking down at her tiny form, peacefully curled beneath silken blankets.
Slowly, carefully, brushed a gentle hand over her wisps of golden hair.
She stirred, her lashes fluttering, and for the briefest moment, her eyes opened.
"Farther," she murmured sleepily.
A rare, genuine smile crossed his lips. "Yes, my pride?"
She yawned, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. "I had a dream."
"Really? So did I."
Her little hand reached out, in shock that adults have dreams too."What was yours about?"
"You go first," he said, humoring her.
She giggled, then whispered as if it were a top secret. "I was riding a pegasus, and we went to the forest to eat strawberry tarts."
Gilgamesh let out a chuckle, shaking his head. Here he was, dreaming of the future—of his daughter as his heir, standing tall and proud, ruling with wisdom and might—while she dreamed of desserts and mythical beasts.
Innocence. Pure, untainted innocence.
Her voice was barely a breath as she asked, "What did you dream about?"She was already drifting back to sleep.
He tucked the blanket higher over her small shoulders, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
"That you would be happy," he whispered. "That no matter what fate has in store, you would always know that you are loved."
Her only response was a contented sigh as sleep pulled her under.
He stood and turned to leave, but before shutting the door, he glanced back.
She looked so peaceful.
He exhaled softly, something unspoken tightening in his chest.
In that moment, he knew what he must do.
The council had been pressuring him for months. When will you try for an heir? When will you secure the bloodline? When will Babylonia have its rightful prince?
But there already was one.
And tomorrow—he would tell them.
The grand hall was filled with the weight of expectation. Lords, advisors, and scholars lined the great table, waiting.
Arthuria was seated beside him, her gaze sharp as ever, though she wasn't yet aware of what was coming.
Gilgamesh let them talk.
Let them prattle on about kingdom matters, war strategies, trade agreements.
Until the conversation inevitably shifted.
"Your Majesty, we must address the matter of an heir."
"You would have me lie to my people on the birth of my children for whose sake, may I ask?" Arthuria, but in. A statement, not a question.
Gilgamesh leaned back in his chair, watching them. Waiting.
"The kingdom needs a prince, my king. The heir should be Arthur Pendragon, Your Majesty, regardless of the specifics of the hour he might have been born…" one councilman insisted."A son secures the line…" the Arakandian counselor said.
Then Gilgamesh's voice—calm, unmovable, And then—he spoke. "No."
The council fell silent.
"My king, I fear I do not understand."
"Are you insinuating my daughter's blood is stained?"
'Of course not, my king…"
"Then it is settled Artizea…Pendragon is the firstborn daughter of the realm. She is my heir, am I making myself clear?"
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Murmurs, whispers—disbelief.
One of the bolder lords hesitated before speaking. "But, Your Majesty… she is a girl—."
His gaze turned razor-sharp. "And what of it? Have you learned nothing?"
The room stilled.
Even Arthuria turned to look at him, her breath catching in her throat.
"Artizea Pendragon is my heir," he continued, his voice commanding, absolute. "The firstborn of my blood. My firstborn will rule after me. As will her First Born. This is my decree for the future ruler of this kingdom. Anyone who thinks otherwise is free to challenge me on the matter—though I would advise against it."
Silence.
Complete and Utter Silence.
No one dared speak against him.
Not one soul in that room would be foolish enough to argue with the King.
The decree had been made.
A king's Word was law.
At his side, his queen simply stared at him.
He was Serious.
She hadn't expected this. Hadn't known what he was planning. And yet—when she looked at him, it was with a kind of admiration, a kind of devotion, that made his pulse quicken.
Because she understood.
She, who had been forced to hide herself, disguise herself, fight for her right to rule. She knew why he had done it.
He had cleared the path for their daughter.
One that wasn't done for herself.
She hadn't needed to beg. Hadn't needed to fight. Hadn't needed to prove her worth.
Because her husband had already done it for her.
For their family.
Her name —Their name and legacy.
And as she gazed at him, eyes shining with something unspoken, he knew.
She had fallen in love with him all over again.
There would be no debate, no question, no challenge.
Alexander slowly exhaled, understanding dawning on his face.
Gil tilted his head slightly, watching his reaction with amusement. "You assumed wrong."His voice left no room for argument.
Artizea would inherit his throne. The notion of inheritance was settled.
For a moment, Alexander simply studied him, then glanced at the little golden tyrant-in-the-making, sitting proudly at her father's side.
She met his gaze without a shred of hesitation.
Alexander let out a low whistle. "I really should be at more of these council meetings more often. You intend to try for more?"
Gilgamesh chuckled, "Of course I do…" With a smirk, he swirled his wine lazily.
Alexander snorted, shaking his head. "Does the queen share that sentiment?"
Then, before the conversation could steer elsewhere—
A small voice cut through the air. "Mother said a good king—"
Gilgamesh and Alexander both turned to look at Artizea.
She sat up a little straighter, crimson eyes sharp, her expression serious, authoritative—almost a replica of Gil's own when he sat in judgment.
"—does not leave his kingdom in chaos and uncertainty."
Silence.
Alexander blinked.
Her Father smirked. She was his pride after all. "Well, there's your answer," he mused, thoroughly amused.
Alexander let out a sharp bark of laughter, shaking his head. "I quite like this one."
Artizea tilted her chin up, looking very pleased with herself as her father patted her head.