Steel rang against steel in one of the many training grounds connected to the castle of Camelot.
Pristine white walls separated the training area from the rest of the city. The walls were able to stop most attacks; only something like a Noble Phantasm could really damage them, so such attacks weren't allowed.
But it wasn't necessary; they didn't use such attacks while training or sparring.
To the Knights of the Round Table, training was just keeping in shape.
At this particular training ground, Sir Lamorak stood.
Across from him, three Enforcement Knights advanced in perfect formation.
These knights knew not fear, they knew not mercy, they knew not hesitation.
They knew only obedience, only their orders and their loyalty.
Their armor gleamed in the sun, shiny metal plates that reflected light sharply enough to force people to look away. And if one did look away, even for a moment, that might cause them to miss the way they moved with mechanical precision.
These three came at Lamorak with precise and calculated steps, each weapon raised at angles that covered for one another, leaving no opening.
Lamorak grinned.
"Good," he said, rolling his shoulders once. "All three."
The first construct lunged without warning.
Lamorak met it head-on.
Their blades collided with a shock that cracked the air. Sparks burst outward as his strength drove the golem back a half-step—not enough to stagger it, but enough to test resistance.
"Better," he muttered.
The second construct moved to flank him while the third closed distance from behind, forming a tightening triangle meant to restrict movement and force defensive positioning.
Lamorak did not retreat.
He stepped forward instead.
His blade cut in a wide arc, not elegant, not restrained—forceful and direct. The strike split the first construct's guard and slammed into its armored shoulder, carving a deep groove through enchanted steel.
The impact shuddered up his arm.
The construct did not cry out.
It countered immediately, pivoting with inhuman stability, its blade thrusting for Lamorak's throat.
He twisted aside, the edge grazing the metal protecting his neck, and drove his elbow into the machine's helm. Metal dented inward with a satisfying crunch.
The second golem struck.
Lamorak caught the blow against his blade, boots grinding against stone as the floor fractured beneath the pressure.
There it was, that resistance, that weight, the feeling of battle!
He laughed, breathless.
"Yes."
The third construct's halberd swept low, targeting his legs. Lamorak vaulted over the strike with explosive strength, landed between the second and third constructs, and drove his pommel into the second's visor before bringing his blade down in a crushing vertical strike.
The enchanted wards along the walls flared as the force of the blow reverberated outward.
The construct's torso split.
Mana hissed out like escaping steam.
The remaining two did not pause to acknowledge the loss.
They just continued their assault, pressing the Knight of the Round Table.
And Lamorak just smiled in turn, a wide, wild one.
There was no hesitation, no fear, no pleading.
Just the clash of metal and bodies.
This was honest combat.
He drove forward again, abandoning defense entirely. His style was not the careful economy of Palamedes nor the precise elegance of Lancelot. Lamorak fought like a storm front—overwhelming, relentless, daring the world to endure him.
The first remaining golem attempted to trap his blade. Lamorak released the grip, stepped inside its guard, and struck with his fist instead. The impact shattered the enchantment core embedded in its chestplate.
The final construct adjusted stance, energy building along the runes carved into its weapon.
Lamorak inhaled deeply.
"Now we're talking."
The golem charged.
He met it with everything he had.
The clash detonated outward in a concussive wave that rattled the area, sending a cloud of dust and sand flying everywhere.
When the cloud cleared, the Enforcement Knight lay in pieces across the dirt, armor in ruin, and mana faded away.
Lamorak stood at the center of the ruin, chest rising steadily, blade resting across his shoulder.
Not exhausted.
Just satisfied.
A pair of mortal squires awaited near the entrance, wide-eyed and looking at him with worship in their gaze. "Shall we deploy more, my lord?" one asked carefully.
Lamorak wiped a streak of dust from his cheek with the back of his gauntlet.
"No," he said. "If I break too many at this point in time, I'm sure Agravain will be mad at me." He rolled his neck once, feeling the lingering hum of adrenaline settle into something calmer.
This was who he was, a warrior first; he cared little for song and destiny, his story had already been told.
A tragic tale.
He had died once—not in glorious battle, but in the shadow of politics and old grudges. Struck down not by a worthy foe, but by tangled loyalties and inherited resentment.
But he didn't want to try to rewrite his history, no matter how inglorious his had been.
He hadn't been summoned like that person; he was summoned as a Knight of the Round Table, summoned at his peak. What had happened to him later… it didn't matter.
What's done is done.
If he fell this time, it would be facing forward.
Steel to claw.
Strength against strength.
He sheathed his blade with a decisive motion and glanced toward the stairwell leading upward.
Hell awaited.
And Sir Lamorak intended to meet it standing.
-----
While many of his brothers in arms were busy preparing for battle in their own way, Sir Percival couldn't do that; he couldn't help but think about the things he would miss out on while in Hell.
He understood that it was his duty, and he would happily rise to fight, to bring his spear to bear against the demons of the abyss, because that was what he should do, what he had to do.
He could fight, and so he should, for those who couldn't.
What troubled him was that he would have to break many other promises, promises he simply couldn't fulfill now that he had to go off to war.
And as someone who hated breaking his word, he didn't like it one bit.
So instead of sharpening his spear for the tenth time or reviewing formations that he already knew by heart, he spent the last hours before setting out trying to fulfill the promises he still could.
The courtyard of the Veiled Hand's training annex echoed not with the clash of steel, but with laughter.
A dozen girls—some barely in their teens, others a few years older—stood in a loose formation across the practice yard. Their stances were uneven. Their discipline varied. Some tried very hard to look serious. Others fidgeted.
All of them bore the invisible marks of the Red Room.
Some had scars on their wrists.
Some had numbers tattooed where names should have been.
All of them had once been weapons.
Percival stood at the center of them, holding his spear loosely in one hand.
He was not correcting their posture.
He was not drilling them into perfect alignment.
He was smiling.
"Again," he said warmly. "But this time, try to disarm me without scowling. A knight should not look angry all the time."
One of the older girls huffed. "You don't scowl because you're winning."
Percival lowered his spear thoughtfully. "Ah. That may be true."
Another girl darted forward suddenly, small dagger flashing in a practiced strike toward his midsection.
Percival shifted barely a fraction, guiding her wrist gently aside with the shaft of his spear. He did not knock her down. He did not counterattack. Instead, he pivoted, stepped behind her, and tapped her shoulder lightly.
"You left this open," he said softly.
She froze.
"…Right."
"But you were faster this time," he added immediately.
Her shoulders straightened a little.
Around them, the others circled, waiting their turn. Waiting for instruction. Waiting for correction.
Waiting for approval.
Percival gave it freely.
When one stumbled, he steadied her.
When one grew frustrated, he knelt to her height and asked what she thought she had done wrong instead of telling her.
When one tried to hide shaking hands behind bravado, he simply placed his shield on the ground and invited her to strike it until her breathing evened.
It was training.
Technically.
But there was no severity in it.
No barked commands.
No punishment for mistakes.
These girls had known discipline as cruelty.
Percival refused to reinforce that.
After an hour, the practice dissolved naturally into story time, with all the girls sitting on the ground and Percival sitting before them, telling them stories of his time as a knight, or stories he made up.
But one thing was common to them all: they were meant to entertain them and fill their lives with joy. For years, he had done this once a week without fail, and for the first time, that would stop, but even then, he never let that show, never let that take away from his story, from the joy he was spreading.
He couldn't erase the nightmares they had gone through, the dark memories, and the pain they had suffered, but he could fill their future with light and love.
And that he did.
-----
Sir Lucan was in the armory when the final preparations were being made.
Not the grand ceremonial armory where banners hung and polished helms gleamed beneath chandeliers.
The lower one.
The practical one.
The place where straps were replaced, buckles adjusted, padding checked, and blades tested not for beauty but for reliability.
He stood beside a long oak table covered in neatly arranged equipment. Each piece had been inspected. Each clasp examined. Each seam reinforced where necessary.
He worked without assistance.
He preferred it that way.
An apprentice had offered to help earlier.
Lucan had declined politely.
"War reveals every weakness," he had said. "Better I find them now."
Before him lay a familiar cloak.
Crimson on the outside.
White within.
Simple.
Unadorned.
He lifted it carefully.
His hands were steady, but there was a weight behind the motion.
He remembered another cloak.
Another battlefield.
Mud.
Blood.
Smoke so thick it turned the sky into something unrecognizable.
Camlann.
He had found her there.
Not as a goddess.
Not as a legend.
As a dying king.
Arthur's armor had been shattered. Excalibur, lying in the mud from where Mordred had disarmed her, Arthur's hand too weak to even grip Rhongomyniad, the divine lance just lying in her open hand.
Mordred lay next to her, already dead, and the king wasn't far behind, eyes still clear but clearly fading.
Lucan had knelt in the mud, knees stained with wet earth and thick blood.
He had tried to lift her away, drag her away from the battle and into the forest.
He remembered the heat of blood soaking through his gloves. Remembered the way her breath had caught.
He had told her she would live.
Never once had she believed him, she kept telling him to bring her Excalibur, and finally, he had done so, and indeed, it seemed to bring a bit of life back to her.
Yet, he was no angel, he was a simple knight, he was her butler, he tried to close her wounds, but his efforts had no effect, and simply continued to cover his hands in more warm blood.
All while she had told him to take Excalibur, yet he ignored her, trying to help her instead.
But… he had nothing with him that could help, no clean cloth that could close the wounds, and it wasn't until Sir Bedivere arrived a little later and he had entrusted his king to him that he finally went to get some supplies.
Yet, the battlefield was a chaotic place, and by the time he arrived, Bedivere was gone, as was Excalibur, and his king… his king, too, was gone…
Avalon.
A word whispered like consolation.
It had not felt like consolation.
Lucan folded the cloak now with deliberate precision, smoothing invisible creases.
He did not weep.
He did not curse.
He did not ask why he had survived when better men had fallen.
He had asked those questions once.
There had been no answers.
The armory door opened softly behind him.
He did not turn.
"I will not forget the supplies this time," he said calmly.
Arthuria's footsteps were light against stone.
"I did not think you would."
She stopped a few paces behind him.
He could feel her presence the way one feels warmth from a hearth—steady, contained, powerful.
Not the child he had once known.
Not even the young king.
Something greater now.
A hand landed on his shoulder, firm, strong. "Then come, battle awaits."