A boy… no, a girl.
Golden hair fluttered with the breeze in refreshing arcs across her forehead. Her green eyes—calm as a still lake—held an unimaginable seriousness and fierce determination.
This moment was a turning point. A pivotal moment for her fate, for her identity, and for the island itself.
From the very beginning, the girl understood her mission. After fifteen years of rigorous education, she had accepted the immense responsibility she carried: to shoulder the future of this land. Though she could not yet see the outcome of her journey, she understood just how critical her role was.
And now—here she stood before the Sword of the Chosen King, unwavering.
The lessons Artoria had been taught were clear and constant: You are the rightful king of Great Britain. You must lead this country out of darkness, driving all foreign enemies from these shores. Remember—the sea beyond holds only foes.
With measured steps, Artoria approached the sword. Her eyes flickered with a brief confusion. Had the sword really been thrust so deeply into the stone already?
But that was of little consequence.
She took a deep breath and laid her hand upon the hilt. A burst of floral fragrance swept over her. The church behind her faded away, replaced by an endless field swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of grass, fresh and alive, filled her lungs and eased the nervous flutter in her chest.
Before her appeared three figures.
She lifted her gaze.
In the center stood a figure draped in a white magic robe, face veiled—Merlin. Beside him, a young man who bore a striking resemblance to herself, yet somehow felt out of place here.
His pale blue eyes held a calm indifference, as if he observed everything but was touched by nothing.
Behind the young man loomed a black dragon, quiet and still. On one of its arms, a faint aurora shimmered.
These were, of course, Merlin and Aslan—and the dragon Melusine.
Perhaps because this was a spiritual realm beyond the physical world, Merlin could shape-shift at will. Aslan, lacking time or inclination, remained unchanged. Melusine stayed in her natural form, bound by the silver chain linking her to Aslan—a symbol of their contract.
Aslan cast a glance at Merlin, who had agreed to this brief glimpse, then turned to face Artoria.
Merlin himself wasn't certain why he revealed his form now. What stirred inside him he could not name. Though he understood fully the weight of the girl's mission, he felt compelled to offer her a chance to reconsider.
Especially after witnessing Aslan pull the sword earlier, an inexplicable unease had settled deep within him.
But Merlin was a creature that didn't comprehend human hearts—a magician bound to act on prophecy. Strange emotions flared, but they were swiftly buried beneath duty.
"Before you draw that blade," Merlin warned, voice low and steady, "think carefully. Once you pull that sword from the stone, you will cease to be simply human. You will be hated by many, and your path will end in tragedy."
Artoria understood perfectly. Once she drew the sword, she would no longer be the young girl training to become a king. She would be a true monarch—sword in hand—tasked with protecting her people.
Her hands would be stained with blood.
She would face betrayal, abandonment, hatred—and there would be no turning back.
No hesitation followed.
As if it were second nature, Artoria drew the sword from the stone.
Merlin did not know that the girl's education had already shaped her view: the harder a king's life, the happier his people would be. In short, Artoria's idea of kingship was complete self-sacrifice for her subjects.
At the same time, Artoria kept her mission at the forefront—to bring peace to Britain and expel all invaders.
She believed with absolute certainty that this was right and just.
Her conviction was not wrong—but it was rigid. The girl's tragedy lay not just in fate, but in the inflexible beliefs she had internalized.
And at the root of that was the misguided education instilled by this inscrutable nightmare named Merlin.
The holy sword flashed brilliantly in Artoria's grasp.
At the same moment, she felt something strange—a subtle connection between the sword in her hand and the blond boy standing next to Merlin.
It was as if two lonely souls had found one another.
Because no matter how strong a person is, the softness of humanity in their heart longs never to walk alone.
"Who are you?" Artoria finally asked, curiosity overcoming caution as she looked at Aslan.
Aslan's lips curved into a faint smile. He didn't know what thoughts crossed her mind. To him, simply standing beside Merlin was enough to pique her curiosity.
"I am someone who may interfere with your destiny. Or perhaps our paths will run parallel, never to intersect. If fate wills it, and we meet again—I will tell you who I am."
Merlin hadn't anticipated that his impulsive decision to manifest this spiritual space would bring Aslan and Melusine here—allowing this first meeting with Artoria.
He had no idea how this meeting might change the threads of destiny.
And clearly, the Sword of Victory still had designs of its own for Aslan.
Raising his staff, Merlin prepared to dissolve the vision and end this surprising first encounter.
"Artoria," he said gently, "you have studied the theory of kingship well. Now that you've drawn the sword, you are truly a knight. Go back to Sir Ector and tell him I will come for you soon."
"You will follow me across Great Britain, witnessing the country's present with your own eyes—and imagining its future."
With a wave of his staff, the three figures vanished.
Only Artoria remained before the church, clutching the golden sword.