As more of my knights arrived one by one, still wearing their full armor, the office, once large enough to accommodate everyone, became too cramped.
Agravain had felt the need to rely on technology to react more effectively to the quickly shifting situations of a war.
Something I couldn't blame him for.
But that meant filling the office with the necessary equipment, which took up much of the otherwise available space.
As such, I made the decision to move this discussion to my throne room.
It didn't feel like all that long ago that I had sat upon this very throne and announced my decision to march into Hell, to lead my armies away and battle an enemy that threatened my world from afar.
I had expected to sit here in the following days and inform Agravain, Lancelot, Sir Dagonet, and Gareth of the events that had happened in Hell.
To reward them for their hard work while the rest of us were away, and then reward my brave, loyal knights who had followed me into Hell, or offer them my heartfelt praise.
Yet instead, we had not even had the chance to rest after returning from one battle before another awaited us.
And I had to sit upon this throne, not to announce our grand victory, but to speak of invasion and death.
I took a deep breath and finally fixed my gaze upon my knights. "I will not waste time. You are aware of what has happened, yes?" I said, more to confirm than to ask.
They all nodded, the earlier casualness in them gone, replaced with an even more determined seriousness than they had displayed in Hell.
Many of them cut loose in battle, allowing the joy of the fight to influence them, though never enough to matter, but enough to cause them to laugh, to enjoy the fight.
Now, there was no joy left.
"While we were away, enemies took advantage of the weakened state of our realm to launch this invasion; their objective wasn't conquest, but brutal murder, the murder of innocents," I stated grimly.
As I spoke, my knights listened with rapt attention, their faces grim, their hands clenched into fists.
"From what Agravain told me," I continued, my voice a low, serious rumble, "this was not a random act of violence. It was a calculated, deliberate attack. An attack designed to inflict maximum damage, to sow chaos, to break the spirit of our people."
I looked at each of them, my gaze lingering for a moment, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that united us, the loyalty that defined us.
"They dared to attack my kingdom. They dared to harm my people. They dared to challenge my rule."
"And for that," I said, my voice rising, a surge of righteous anger, of divine fury, welling up from the depths of my soul, "they will pay. They will pay with their metal bodies, they will pay with their precious data, they will pay with their very existence."
I stood, my armor, a gleaming suit of silver and gold, seeming to hum with barely contained power. I was not just a king; I was a goddess, a warrior, a force of nature.
And I was angry.
"But revenge can and will wait; first, we must protect our people and our lands. We must push the enemy back. Only once the people are safe can we eliminate the enemy once and for all."
I looked at the gathered Knights of the Round Table, my army, my family.
"We've returned from one war, but it seems another has come to our shores," I said, my gaze sweeping over them. "I know you are weary. I know you have earned your rest. But our people need us. Our kingdom needs us. We cannot rest. Not while the enemy is at our gates."
I paused, letting my words sink in, the weight of the responsibility and the urgency of the situation hanging in the air.
"So I ask you, my knights, will you stand with me? Will you fight with me? Will you defend our home?"
One by one, they stepped forward, their expressions resolute, their voices a united chorus of defiance.
"We will stand with you, my King," Gawain said, his hand on the hilt of his sword, a fire in his eyes.
"We will fight with you, my King," Galahad added, his grip on his shield tight, his jaw set.
"We will defend our home, my King," Mordred declared, her blade already in her hand, a wolfish grin on her face.
The others followed, their voices echoing through the grand hall, a symphony of loyalty and courage, a promise of retribution and redemption.
"Then go. Take the Enforcement Knights and put an end to this war that has reached our shores. Go forth and announce to everyone—to our people and our enemies alike—that we have returned!" I commanded, my hand raised as a signal for them to depart.
My knights bowed as one.
Then they rose and scattered.
There were no further words, no celebrations or joyful reunions.
There would be time for those later.
For now, there was only war.
-----
All across Albion, its people continued to fight.
Along the eastern shore, the Enforcement Knights stood ankle-deep in the cold waters of the sea.
There were fewer than there had originally been, and those that remained were battered and beaten.
Even the mighty Enforcement Knights couldn't fully resist the endless waves of attacks that came at them; the Sentinels might lack any Mystery in their attacks, but pure, relentless force could still eventually wear down these stalwart defenders.
Normally, they wouldn't degrade this easily, but Agravain was unable to resupply them with mana, leaving them short and forcing them to ignore their own defense to keep up with the demands of their offense.
Behind them lay a small coastal town.
Its people were gone, evacuated farther inland hours before, but the Enforcement Knights remained.
That was their purpose.
Not to survive.
Not to retreat.
To ensure that nothing reached the people placed behind them.
Another wave of Sentinels broke through the dark waters, their metal bodies dripping with seawater like demons of the depths.
The Enforcement Knights raised their bows.
Arrows flew.
The Sentinels opened fire.
And the shore erupted once again.
-----
Farther north, Lancelot stood atop the ruined remains of a bridge.
Arondight flashed through the air, cutting through a Sentinel's arm before the machine could bring its weapon to bear.
The blade turned.
A second strike separated its head from its shoulders.
The machine collapsed into the river below.
But another immediately took its place.
Then another.
Lancelot looked as if he had been transported back in time, back to when he first came to serve Arthuria.
His hair was an unwashed mess, his cloak ruined, his armor filthy and scorched.
He had been too busy rushing around, putting out fires, fighting, and saving those who were threatened to take care of himself.
Yet he continued to fight with the same impossible skill that had made him the greatest knight of the Round Table.
He had been fighting for a long time now; he barely remembered what rest was at this point. He couldn't afford to rest because behind him stood the people of Albion.
And he wouldn't let his King down, not again.
As he raised Arondight once more, a brilliant flash of golden light caught his attention. He looked up into the sky, where a second sun seemed to have appeared.
For a moment, Lancelot simply stared.
He knew that light.
He would have recognized it anywhere.
The Sentinel before him raised its arm, the weapon built into its palm glowing with deadly energy, but before it could fire, the golden sun descended.
A pillar of light slammed into the machine from above.
The bridge shook beneath Lancelot's feet as the Sentinel disappeared within the explosion, its great metal body reduced to molten fragments that scattered into the river below.
Then a figure landed where it had stood.
Golden armor gleamed beneath the artificial sun, utterly untouched by the flames surrounding him.
Sir Gawain rose slowly, Galatine resting upon one shoulder.
His gaze first moved toward the civilians still crossing the bridge, confirming that they were safe, before finally settling upon Lancelot.
For several seconds, neither knight spoke.
Their relationship remained strained. There were wounds between them that even death and resurrection had not healed, and perhaps never would.
Yet Gawain's expression softened as he took in Lancelot's ruined armor, his unwashed hair, and the exhaustion he was no longer able to hide.
"You look terrible, Sir Lancelot."
Lancelot stared at him.
Then, for the first time in weeks, a faint smile crossed his face.
"And you remain as radiant as ever, Sir Gawain."
More Sentinels descended from the clouds, their weapons turning toward the two knights.
Gawain brought Galatine down from his shoulder.
Lancelot raised Arondight beside him.
Neither needed to ask why the other was there.
Their King had returned.
And for the first time since the war began, Lancelot was no longer fighting alone.
-----
Outside Bodmin, the walls Bastion had raised were beginning to crumble.
The strategy that had once allowed three ordinary mutants to destroy three Sentinels without suffering so much as a scratch had long since been shared across the enemy network.
The machines had learned.
The next time they came, they kept their distance.
Pulse's electromagnetic bursts were met by hardened systems and layers of redundant circuitry. Glasswing's crystalline dust was burned away before it could take root, the Sentinels heating their outer armor until the crystal fragments melted.
Bastion had responded by raising more walls, building layer after layer of defenses around the town.
But stone could only withstand so much.
A beam tore through the outer wall, exploding through several metres of rock and throwing Bastion from his feet.
He struck the ground hard.
His ears rang, and for a moment, he could hear nothing except the distant screams of the people sheltering behind him.
He forced himself back onto one knee.
Pulse lay nearby, unconscious but breathing. Glasswing struggled to rise, one of her crystalline wings shattered.
The Sentinel stepped through the breach.
Its red eyes moved between the three mutants, assessing each of them in turn.
Then it raised one arm toward Glasswing.
Bastion threw out his hand.
The ground erupted, stone rising between them, but the Sentinel fired before the barrier could fully form.
A red blur struck it from the side.
The machine disappeared from sight with a deafening crash, thrown through the remains of the wall and sent tumbling across the field beyond.
Someone landed inside the breach.
Red-and-silver armor.
Wild blond hair.
Clarent gripped firmly in both hands.
Mordred looked over her shoulder at the three stunned mutants.
"You lot alive?"
Bastion stared at her, his mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
"Sir Mordred?"
"The one and only."
The Sentinel began to rise in the distance, its damaged body already repairing itself.
Mordred turned toward it, Clarent's blade igniting with crimson lightning.
"Get your friends somewhere safe. I'll handle the scrap metal."
The machine charged.
Mordred met it halfway.
Clarent crashed against its chest with enough force to split the ground beneath them, and the Sentinel was hurled backward once more.
This time, Mordred did not allow it to rise.
Bastion watched crimson light tear across the field, followed by an explosion that reduced the machine to burning fragments.
Only then did the meaning of her presence truly settle upon him.
Mordred had left with the King.
If she was here—
"The King..." Glasswing whispered from behind him.
Mordred heard her.
She turned back, a fierce grin crossing her face.
"Father's home."
(End of chapter)
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