General Titus rose from his seat on the mountain.
The stone throne that had held him for hours was suddenly beneath him unimportant, irrelevant, boring. He had watched enough. Had observed enough. Had waited enough.
His hand snatched the scope from his eye and threw it aside. The instrument tumbled down the mountainside, bouncing off rocks, until it shattered somewhere far below.
He looked at the battlefield at his soldiers dying, at the Knights of Camelot triumphing, at the golden light of Excalibur that had just erupted across the desert.
"Oh my." His voice was calm. Too calm. "Soldiers below. You who love Caesar as I do."
His eyes narrowed.
"You do not show your love for him. Rather, you show weakness with your deaths."
The words hung in the mountain air like poison.
"The death of a soldier of Caesar is a disgrace to his name." Titus's voice hardened. "Hence, you have insulted the name of Caesar. You have insulted the mighty nation of Rome."
He paused. Looked at the bodies scattered across the battlefield hundreds of them, maybe thousands. His soldiers. His responsibility.
"But alas." Something softened in his voice. "As warriors, I hold you in high regard. You fought for Caesar as one who yearns to be loved by Caesar."
He reached up and put on his helm.
The helmet settled over his head, its crest catching the grey light. Then he began to adjust his armor tugging straps, settling plates, preparing. Each movement was deliberate, practiced, inevitable.
It was clear what was about to happen.
The battlefield that had been brought to a level of balance between the Romans and the Knights of Camelot was about to be flipped upside down.
By one man.
General Titus.
This enemy was different from the others they had faced. He was not the strongest there were those in Valhalla who could defeat him in single combat. He was not the fastest others could outrun him. He was not the most skilled there were warriors who had trained longer, fought harder, lived more battles.
But he was strong enough.
Strong enough to destroy.
"I will tell of your good deeds to Caesar." Titus's voice carried to the four soldiers who stood at his back the ones who would follow him into battle. "That Caesar may love you. As I do."
He geared his helm fully into place.
Then he pulled his sword from its scabbard.
The blade sang as it emerged a long, deadly thing of Roman steel, worn by centuries of use but still sharp. Still hungry.
He walked forward.
Behind him, four of the eighteen cloaked soldiers took step after him. Their movements were synchronized, perfect. They had trained for this. Had waited for this.
Titus stopped at the edge of the mountain. Looked down at the battlefield below. Raised his sword to the sky.
"Like the star that shoots for the heavens," he said, his voice carrying on the wind, "straight in the night..."
He bent his knees.
"...I shall now begin my strike."
Above them all, Darlington watched.
His eyes had been fixed on Titus from the moment the general rose. He had seen the scope thrown. Seen the armor adjusted. Seen the sword drawn.
And now he was stuck.
His mind raced through possibilities, outcomes, consequences. Should he tell the newly awakened Lancelot? Should he warn him of what was coming?
If I tell him, Darlington thought, the faith he has in me will continue to grow like pillars supporting a temple. He will see me as his guide. His god.
He scratched his hair a nervous habit from his old life.
But he will also see me as someone who is... an observer. Someone who watches and warns but does not act.
He looked at the four cloaked soldiers. At Titus. At the destruction they were about to unleash.
If I don't tell him... blood will be spilled. Who knows what will happen next?
His scratching grew more frantic.
There are already too many uncalculated factors in place. The newly awakened Lancelot. The transformed Arthur. The Sword of David's power. I don't really like this. I can't find a space here, can I?
He paused. Stared at the scene below.
Wait.
A slow smile crossed his face.
No. For sure I can.
He straightened, his decision made.
I won't tell him what's about to happen. I won't give him a shoulder to lean on. I'll let it happen while making him aware of the dark future that I'm sure awaits him.
He looked at Lancelot still floating above the battlefield, still holding Arondight, still changed.
Let's test this new version of you, Lancelot. Let's see what you're made of.
Darlington opened his mouth metaphorically, in the space between their minds and spoke.
"You will soon lose your fellow knight again."
The words dropped into Lancelot's consciousness like stones into still water.
"Just like before." Darlington's voice was calm, almost gentle. "You will lose them again."
Lancelot fell.
The floating that had held him suspended above the battlefield ceased. His body dropped not far, just a few feet before he caught himself, landing lightly on the sand below.
His hand tightened on Arondight.
The blade began to change. Its color shifted from the dark, lightless black it had become to something else. Something new.
Blood red.
The crimson spread along the blade like veins, like life, like rage.
"God." Lancelot's voice was rough, uncertain. "Is that...?"
He looked around frantically, searching for the threat Darlington had warned him of. His eyes found Galahad, Tristan, and Percival together on one side of the battlefield, recovering, preparing, alive.
He was confident he could reach them. Could protect them. Could
BOOM!
The sound erupted from the mountain.
General Titus and his four soldiers the ones who had followed him jumped.
They descended like meteors, like judgment, like death.
Titus landed on the fourth front of the battlefield.
The impact cracked the ground beneath him, sending shockwaves in every direction. Roman soldiers who had been fighting there were thrown aside like leaves. Camelot knights stumbled and fell.
He straightened, his sword raised, his voice thundering across the chaos.
"I LOVE CAESAR AS YOU DO!"
The battle cry echoed. It carried across the entire battlefield, reaching every ear, every heart, every soul.
Far away, on the other side of the desert, Lancelot heard it.
His blood ran cold.
"Oh no..."
The words escaped his lips like a prayer. Like a curse.
He began to run.
Blood would be spilled.
Lives would be lost.
And somewhere above it all, a false god watched and waited and calculated.