The Perspective of Mordred.
Standing atop the battlements, Mordred gazed toward the horizon where the sun dipped beneath the sea, her thoughts consumed by the man who had entrusted Camelot to her care: Elius.
In truth, she had never truly known him. To her, he had been little more than a functionary—the one responsible for the endless tide of scrolls and ledgers that sustained the Round Table.
Yet, the other knights placed their absolute faith in him. Even the King favored him with a degree of trust far beyond what she afforded the other lords of the table.
Morgan herself had once declared that to see the Round Table crumble, one must first strike down Elius. That alone spoke volumes of his importance.
Thus, Mordred had initially intended to slay him, fueled by Morgan's whispers of insurrection. She had anticipated little resistance; a man who spent his days buried in ink and parchment, she reasoned, would fall easily if she simply drove a blade through his gut. She had not spared him a second thought.
But witnessing his duel against the Roman Emperor had forced her to discard those delusions.
In both raw physical prowess and refined technique, he far outstripped her. He was an anomaly—a man she assumed would be fragile from a life of administration, only to reveal himself as a titan of the battlefield.
Having seen his strength, a question gnawed at Mordred's mind: Why did a man of such caliber, a man who perhaps even eclipsed the King, choose to serve her so faithfully?
She recalled the words he had left her with before departing for the King's side.
—"I swore an oath, Mordred. An oath to protect Her."
"...An oath, is it?"
For Mordred, who had lived solely for the King's acknowledgment only to feel betrayed by that very silence, his loyalty felt alien. Her heart was a cauldron of resentment toward the King; to see a man offer such unrequited devotion was, in her eyes, a complete irregularity.
Suddenly, a realization struck her. She had never truly considered the King herself. She had only ever considered what she *wanted* from the King.
She had never stopped to wonder why Artoria refused to acknowledge her as a child. As this clarity dawned on her, a hollow, self-deprecating laugh escaped her lips.
"Haha... Hahahaha! I never even tried to understand the King!"
The absurdity of her own foolishness struck her—demanding rewards and recognition without ever attempting to grasp the burden the King carried.
If she continued down this path, she would be no different from the common rabble she so despised for their weakness.
No. She would strive to earn that acknowledgment. The treachery she had been nurturing only moments ago was cast aside, discarded like refuse.
She would seek to understand the King's agony, to feel the weight of her heart, and only then would she speak those words again—that she was the King's child.
In response to her shifting resolve, the blade at her hip thrummed with a strange resonance. It was Florent, the sword of the Roman Emperor that Elius had entrusted to her.
As the symbol of imperial authority over the entire continent, excluding Gaul, the weight of the hilt felt like a validation of her own sovereignty. It provided a peculiar sense of solace to her fractured spirit.
'This... is not a bad feeling,' she mused. But her moment of reflection was shattered by a deafening roar of destruction behind her.
CRASH!!!
"—What!"
The impact was so violent that the very ramparts Mordred stood upon trembled. Steeling her stance, she snapped her gaze toward the source of the blast.
What she saw was staggering. The inner walls of the citadel were collapsing, buckling under the force of an internal explosion.
There was no smoke, no scent of sulfur or flame—meaning it was no mundane explosive. It was a manifestation of pure, concentrated Prana.
Reacting instantly, Mordred unsheathed Florent and glared through the rising clouds of dust.
There, emerging from the debris, stood a knight clad in abyssal armor. Mordred knew him instantly. How could she not?
He was a peer, a fellow Knight of the Round Table. Her voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl.
"...Lancelot."
"Grrr....."
The knight in black raised his head, his helmeted gaze locking onto her position atop the wall.
'...That piece of filth was supposed to be in the dungeons.'
He had been bound with Mana-suppressing restraints; short of outside intervention, escape should have been an impossibility.
Unless, of course, someone had aided him. Mordred knew only one person capable of and willing to weave such a scheme.
'...Morgan.'
The suspicion was confirmed as she detected a faint, sickeningly familiar scent of magical energy wafting from the inner keep—the twisted Prana of the witch who had birthed her.
Mordred leveled Florent at Lancelot. The Fallen Knight lunged forward with inhuman speed, bringing Arondight down in a crushing overhead strike.
Mordred caught the blow on her blade, her teeth bared as she stared into the abyss of his visor.
"...You've truly fallen, you wretch. Accepting the aid of Morgan? Do you intend to betray the King utterly?!"
To her surprise, the knight, whom she thought consumed by madness, answered.
"...No. My loyalty to the King remains unshaken. I seek only the death of Elius—the one who has inflicted this agony upon me."
He continued, his voice like grinding stones, "I will slay any who dare to obstruct me. I ask you now... will you stand in my way, Mordred?"
A predatory smirk curved Mordred's lips as she scoffed.
"...Hah! As if you need to ask. So long as your actions bring harm to the King, I will take your head myself!"
"Then... you shall die."
Upon the high walls of Camelot, the swords of two Knights of the Round Table clashed in a storm of steel.
The Perspective of Mordred, End.
-----------------
"...Urgh."
As I rode, I felt the metallic sting of blood rising in my throat before I coughed it out. Ah, I thought as much. Attempting a long-distance forced march in this condition was madness.
My breath grew shallow, and with every surge of blood, the reality became clear: the jarring rhythm of the horse had caused my shattered ribs to puncture my lung.
Wiping the crimson from my lips, I turned to look at the soldiers following me.
The knights and men-at-arms were at their breaking point, their faces gaunt with exhaustion. Even the mounts were lathered in sweat, their heads hanging low.
Seeing they could go no further, I raised my hand and signaled for a halt. The soldiers slumped in their saddles the moment the order was given.
Rinsing the iron taste from my mouth with a swallow of water, I spat it onto the dirt and unfurled a map to check our position.
This was strange... according to Merlin's directions, we should have arrived at the battlefield. Yet, while there were signs of a large force having passed through, there were no traces of active combat.
"...Merlin. Are you there?"
Poof!
"Ta-da! Your big sister Merlin is always by your side, you know?"
As if on cue, the Magus of Flowers manifested in a swirl of shimmering petals and a whimsical sound effect. I ignored her antics and cut straight to the point.
"Merlin, we've reached the designated coordinates, but there is no one here. Explain this."
"The rebel forces were more numerous than we anticipated," she replied, her usual playfulness tempered by a rare gravity. "Furthermore... Morgan has joined the fray personally. Right now, Artoria is..."
"She has retreated to the Hill of Camlann."
The words hit me with the weight of destiny. The inevitable had finally arrived. For I knew better than anyone what that place represented.
The Hill of Camlann—the site where the legend of King Arthur was destined to meet its end.