Olivia was trapped in a bad dream.
It didn't start that way.
At first, it was profoundly pleasant, a warm and idyllic vision.
She was seeing through the eyes of a young girl named Artoria Pendragon, who lived a leisurely and simple life with her older brother, Arthur Pendragon.
They resided in the modest, comfortable house of their adoptive father, the kind and sturdy Sir Ector.
She could feel the warmth of shared meals at a rough-hewn wooden table, the cozy security of huddling under the same thick blanket while telling stories as a fire crackled in the hearth.
She felt the strain and sweat of training together in the courtyard, the weight of a practice sword in her hands, the sound of clashing wood echoing in the morning air.
There was another presence, too—an additional brother, a sharp-witted and genuinely funny boy who was often sarcastic, constantly throwing verbal jabs at their mentor, Merlin.
This mage, for all his immense power, was frustratingly unreliable in the most severe of occasions, a fact the brother never failed to point out with a smirk.
Then, the scene changed violently.
The warmth of the hearth was replaced by the cold, damp air of a stone circle.
Her brother, Arthur, now older and with a grim determination in his eyes, stood before a magnificent sword plunged deep into an anvil of solid stone.
Every knight, noble, and commoner who had gathered for the sword watched with bated breath.
As Arthur's hand closed around the hilt and he pulled the sword from the stone with a resonant, metallic ring, a collective gasp swept through the crowd.
Every mouth fell agape in sheer, unadulterated shock.
The impossible had happened.
A single, awestruck voice finally broke the silence. "The king... the king has been chosen!"
The declaration was like a trigger.
Knights, bound by sacred honor and oath, were the first to move.
Without a moment's hesitation, they dropped to one knee, placing their own swords on the ground before them and bowing their heads in pious reverence before her brother.
"My king," they intoned as one.
The wave of fealty spread like wildfire, from the common people in their rough-spun clothes to the most prideful and disloyal nobles, all were compelled to kneel before this prophesied king, the savior who was destined to rescue Camelot and all of Britannia from its invaders and the Saxon hordes.
The dream did not end with the coronation. Just as the prophecy had foretold, the king fought valiantly. Olivia watched through Artoria's eyes as he waged war against the Saxons, crushed the rebellions of treacherous nobles, and faced the fearsome Vortigern.
She felt the ground shake as he slew the great white dragon, a beast of pure calamity that had terrorized the island.
She saw him build a towering monument upon the creature's tomb, using its own bones as a foundation within his city, Londinium.
And through it all, the young girl, Artoria, was always there. She was a constant presence, a steadfast companion on his valiant journey against impossible odds.
His reign was marked by continuous, brilliant victory and an unprecedented peace.
He had not only expelled the invaders from the island's shores but had also eradicated the primal source of its suffering by slaying the white dragon.
Yet, that hard-won peace was tragically short-lived.
No sooner had the savior king united all of Britannia under one banner than a new, even greater threat emerged from across the ocean.
The mighty Roman Empire, with its vast, sprawling territories and seemingly endless legions, sent its envoys.
Their demand was simple, arrogant, and absolute: the King of Camelot was to bend the knee and recognize the supreme rule of Rome.
However, the King would never surrender his kingdom to a corrupt empire.
He fought valiantly against Emperor Lucius, meeting his legions in a series of brutal, decisive battles.
He not only routed the imperial armies, shattering their formations and breaking their spirit, but he then made the audacious decision to cross the ocean itself, to lay siege to the heart of the empire and end the dominance of Rome once and for all.
He succeeded in this monumental task. The King did not merely raid the outskirts; he occupied the very capital of Rome, his banners flying where only the eagle standard had dared.
In a final, humiliating blow to the empire's prestige, he forced Pope Leo I, the same pope who had famously turned away the fearsome Attila the Hun, the Scourge of God who had rampaged across Europe to his knees.
Yet, this glorious victory was tragically short-lived.
News, terrible and unbelievable, reached him from across the sea: his most trusted knight, Lancelot, had betrayed him.
Lancelot had seized Camelot in his absence, launching a surprise attack that butchered many of the noble Knights of the Round Table in the capital in a single, bloody blow.
Whispers on the wind spoke of an even more personal wound that he had kidnapped the King's own queen, Guinevere.
Stricken with disbelief and a heart-shattering sense of betrayal, the King abandoned his hard-won conquest of Rome and raced back to his homeland.
But the reality he returned to was worse than any rumor.
He found his kingdom in ashes, his beloved friends and loyal knights slain one by one, their bodies broken by the hands of his former knight, Lancelot, and the usurper, Modred.
The tragedy only deepened.
Lancelot himself was ultimately slain by Modred, who then turned her vile attention to the queen.
Believing she had tarnished her father's name and legacy, Modred forced Guinevere to commit suicide.
With both his greatest knight and his wife dead, Modred solidified her treachery, occupying the capital and boldly proclaiming herself the new king, bringing about the final, catastrophic end of King Arthur's reign at the Battle of Camlann.
Seeing his friends, his wife, and even his mentor Merlin gone, one by one, leaving behind only a hill of corpses and his own daughter, Modred, dying in his arms, Arthur was utterly broken.
The weight of the crown, the throne, the very kingdom itself, became an unbearable burden.
He did not choose to fight to reclaim his rule. Instead, consumed by grief and loss, he carried his daughter's body and buried himself deep within the mystical isle of Avalon, withdrawing from the world of men and ending his own reign, not with a final battle, but with a silence of profound sorrow.
The young girl, Olivia, watched all of this unfold in her vision and broke into helpless, shuddering tears as she witnessed the man who so strongly resembled her beloved brother fall into such a state of utter despair.
The nightmare was so vivid, so real, that the anguish clung to her as she violently woke, her body jolting.
Still trapped in the horror of the dream, she instinctively clutched the boy sleeping soundly beside her, her fingers digging tightly into his arm as they shared the same blanket, seeking the living, breathing proof that her brother was still there, and that this terrible future was not yet written.
"Hush... It's just a bad dream, Olivia. You're safe now," her brother whispered into the darkness, his voice a soft anchor in the wake of her terror.
But his comforting words couldn't stop the hot tears from streaming down her cheeks, each one a testament to the vivid horror she had just witnessed.
"In that dream… was it really you, brother? Why do I keep seeing it? Why do I feel like it's real?" Olivia asked, her voice choked and trembling as she looked up at him, her eyes begging for an explanation.
Arthur stayed silent for a moment before letting out a slow, tired sigh. "It's true. Inside you is also my sister, Artoria. Her memories, her strength, her will… they're all there. And one day, you'll be just as strong as she once was."
"Brother…" Olivia's voice cracked. She didn't know how to respond.
She didn't know what to say, the revelation both terrifying and awe-inspiring.
After all, the world in her dream was so vastly different from their own.
She had seen her brother as an undefeated myth, a king of legend, only to witness his ultimate betrayal by those he trusted most. She had seen his kingdom, his life's work, turned to ash, and watched his dearest friends die one by one the moment he returned from a great triumph that had instantly curdled into tragedy.
Then, her expression shifted.
The confusion and fear solidified into a fierce, unshakable resolve.
She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand, her jaw setting with determination.
"I believe you can rebuild Camelot again, brother… You've already summoned your old friend, your mentor, and even your past life's sister is living inside me. I'll do everything I can to help you. I'll make sure the Camelot you wanted, the Camelot you deserved comes true this time."
Arthur let out a soft, playful chuckle. "Are you sure? Saying things like that… doesn't it make us rebels?"
"It's not rebellion," Olivia shot back without hesitation. "Those nobles are just stealing what's supposed to be yours."
Even now, she didn't understand the full truth.
She didn't know that Arthur's Camelot belonged to a different world entirely, that this was not Earth, and that the history she saw was not a forgotten chapter of this land.
Olivia simply believed Camelot was a very distant, buried memory of a past so old it had been erased from the history books, and she mistook the current noble families as usurpers who had stolen her brother's birthright.
Arthur didn't bother correcting her misunderstanding. He only chuckled again, quietly. "For now, let's sleep, sister. Kingdoms aren't built in a day."
Olivia nodded obediently, the adrenaline of her nightmare and her passionate declaration finally receding.
She snuggled deeply against his arm, burying her face in the familiar, safe scent of him, and closed her eyes.
Arthur returned the hug, holding her close as they embraced each other in the shared warmth and comfort of their blanket, a small island of peace against the vast, uncertain future that awaited them.