General Titus stood over the headless body of the man in the golden mask.
Blood pooled around his boots dark, thick, spreading across the rocky ground. He looked at the corpse for a moment, then at the other two brothers the bare-chested man, the one in scavenged armor and his expression did not change.
He jumped down from his horse.
The stallion snorted, stomping its hooves, but did not move. It had been trained for this. Bred for this. It knew its master's rhythm.
Titus landed lightly on the ground, his black blade still dripping.
"Oh, traitors." His voice was calm, almost conversational. "It has been quite a long time, has it not?"
He walked past the corpse, circling the remaining brothers.
"You abandoned Rome. And have cost us a lot." He stopped, tilting his head. "But no enemies of Rome shall live. All enemies of Rome must die."
He looked at them at their frozen faces, their terrified eyes.
"It almost makes me wonder..." His voice dropped. "If your master the one you once served is too a traitor."
The man in the scavenged armor wanted to react.
His body twitched. His hand reached for his weapon. His mouth opened to defend Mordred, to protect him, to shout that he was not a traitor, that he had never been a traitor, that the brothers' loyalty was theirs and not his.
Then he stopped.
No.
His mind raced.
No, I can't. If I do this right now... it would be a huge mistake.
He looked at Titus at the cold, calculating eyes, at the black blade still dripping with his brother's blood.
If I defend him, he will know. He will know there is still loyalty toward Mordred. Which would...
His blood froze.
...brand Mordred a traitor.
He forced his hand to still.
No. Mordred still needs a banner that he can stand on. I cannot be the reason for that banner to fall.
He thought furiously.
Then what should I do? Will he see my defensiveness as a method of defense toward Mordred? Will he
The other brother the bare-chested one could not control himself.
He lunged.
His body shot forward, his blade raised, his eyes fixed on Titus's head. He moved faster than he had ever moved, harder than he had ever struck.
He was about to land his blade on the general's skull.
Then his target disappeared.
One moment, Titus was there standing before him, waiting for the strike.
The next, he was gone.
The brother's momentum carried him forward, past where Titus had stood, past the corpse of his brother, past everything.
He felt a presence at his back.
Cold. Absolute. Dreadful.
Titus's voice came from behind him.
"Even your very weakness disgusts me."
SHLIK!
The black blade cut through his body not at the neck, not at the heart, but at the waist. The blade parted flesh, severed spine, opened his abdomen like a butcher splitting a pig.
His intestines poured out of his body sliding, slithering, spilling across the ground. His organs followed his stomach, his liver, his kidneys all of them tumbling into the blood-soaked sand.
He stood there for a moment, looking down at his own insides, his mouth open, his eyes wide.
Then he fell.
In two pieces.
The last brother looked at him.
His body shook. His teeth chattered. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his throat.
What...
His mind scrambled.
What the hell is this?
He looked at the bodies of his brothers the headless one, the halved one and felt something he had not felt in centuries.
Terror.
My two brothers... His thoughts were barely coherent. They were cut down. They couldn't even react.
He pressed his hands against his head, trying to stop the shaking.
How? They're strong. I've seen it.
He looked at Titus at the general standing calmly among the corpses, his black blade still dripping, his expression still cold.
So what's this? How is this level of strength even possible for a human?
General Titus laughed.
It was a short, sharp sound not mocking, not cruel, but genuinely amused.
"How is this strength possible?" He tilted his head. "That is a question for the weak."
He stepped forward.
"Right now, your weakness... your lack of faith..." His voice dropped. "Disgusts me to the point that I'm itching to make your death beautiful."
He raised his blade.
"In the slowest way possible."
He paused.
"But there is something that I have to confirm."
He looked the last brother straight in the eye.
"I will be patient. Before I begin to hunt you." He lowered his blade. "Run. I'm giving you a free chance."
He gestured at the battlefield at the open space, at the distance, at the possibility of escape.
"Run anywhere you want. To escape." His voice hardened. "For your own life."
Run, boy.
Run.
The last brother ran.
He dropped his weapons his dagger, his whip, everything and fled. His legs pumped. His lungs burned. His heart raced.
His entire body was screaming one thing.
I need to survive.
I'm going to die.
I'm going to DIE.
I need to LIVE.
He did not notice that he had pissed himself. Did not notice the warmth spreading down his legs. Did not notice anything except the ground beneath his feet and the distance he needed to cover.
General Titus watched him run.
His eyes tracked the fleeing figure the panic, the desperation, the animal need to survive.
This situation, he thought, could either play out in two ways.
He rested his black blade on his shoulder.
Either way... it will confirm my suspicions. The suspicions I have had about you, Mordred.
He took a slow breath.
Not only have I had those suspicions. Even the one who was previously in this position the one who failed had them. But he could do nothing. His eyes narrowed. That doesn't change. At this point, there is nothing that I can do about it.
He watched the runner.
At least... not yet.
Not until I confirm my suspicion.
The runaway ran toward the direction of Mordred.
His feet carried him across the sand, toward the distant figures Mordred and Gareth, still locked in their strange, frozen battle.
Then something came to his mind.
Can Mordred save me?
He looked at the scene at the knight who stood like a devil, at the nephew who could not move, at the stalemate that seemed to hold them both.
He's stuck in battle with that one. If I go closer... His thoughts darkened. ...it might be a trouble. I might implicate him.
He turned.
Away from Mordred. Away from the battle. Away from the only person who might have been able to protect him.
No.
His feet carried him in a new direction.
If I do that, then... both he and I will face death.
He ran faster.
This should be it. His thoughts were fragmented, desperate. This way, I won't put him in trouble.
He felt the weight of his situation pressing down on him.
But I'll still die, won't I?
He smiled a bitter, broken smile.
Well...
Anything for my lord. The one I truly serve.
His eyes burned with tears.
I hate this. His voice was barely a whisper. I really hate this, ya know.
He looked up at the grey sky at the nothing that watched him, at the gods who did not care.
Please, Lord Mordred...
He wept.
Don't forget about me.
Don't forget about my brothers.
General Titus heard him.
The words desperate, tearful, sincere carried across the distance between them.
"Oh my." His voice was quiet. "That's more than enough confirmation for me."
He smiled.
"It shows deep loyalty." His hand tightened on his black blade. "But your loyalty..."
He raised his sword to throw it.
"...has killed you."
A great heat erupted from where the runaway was going.
Not from Titus. Not from Mordred. From somewhere else from the direction of the first front, from the golden light that had been burning for hours.
General Titus heard the word.
"SUN."
The voice was distant, but absolute.
Arthur's voice.
The runaway looked up and saw light.
Not the grey light of Valhalla. Not the pale light of the sky. Something golden. Something warm. Something that burned.
The last thing he saw was the sun.
A warm feeling like being held, like being loved, like being forgiven spread through his body.
Then he turned to ash.
His body crumbled flesh, bone, everything scattering across the sand like dust.
He was gone.
General Titus sheathed his sword.
The black blade slid into its scabbard with a soft click.
"It seems," he said quietly, "that the king of Camelot has started to make his advancement."
He looked at the thirteen black-cloaked soldiers who stood behind him waiting, patient, ready.
"So I, too, shall prepare."
He turned to face them.
"There are some minority traitors still around." His voice hardened. "Let's kill all of them. Now."
The thirteen soldiers moved.
And the grey sky watched.