Perhaps because of his bloodline, Aslan had long noticed his intuition was unusually sharp—maybe it was the inherited Pendragon instinct, the ahoge, or simply a sixth sense passed down through generations.
Fortunately, this gift was more blessing than curse. In these dark times, danger lurked around every corner. Without this vague yet reliable intuition, escaping the watchful eyes of the foreigners would have been nearly impossible. It had also led him to discover that an old, treacherous figure was secretly watching him.
Aslan chose to trust this intuition—no matter how unscientific it seemed. After all, when science reaches its limits, metaphysics begins. If this ability could be honed into a skill, there must be some reason for it.
He slowed his breathing, melting into the shadows, his hand resting lightly on his forging hammer—ready to act at a moment's notice.
A black shadow moved swiftly down the corridor ahead. From the glimpse of clothing beneath the cloak, these figures were unlike nobles or common folk. Though Aslan had never met magicians of this era, his instincts told him these were exactly that—magicians, but unlike what he had imagined.
When did magicians start dressing like assassins? Their black cloaks, tight garments, and daggers made them seem poised for murder rather than magic. As they whispered among themselves, the heavy Roman accent made their words unintelligible to Aslan, but he had a strong hunch: following them would bring him closer to his goal.
Putting aside the irritation from the lord's daughter earlier, Aslan waited until they were out of sight before trailing them silently. His magical ability wasn't strong enough to track them directly, so he relied on staying hidden and close.
In another VIP room, Morgan kept her magic alive, fingers tapping the table restlessly. Her staff lay nearby as she mulled over everything she had seen today. The idea that Aslan was the future King Arthur nagged at her—though it was their first encounter, she could sense his cold indifference.
If someone like that becomes king...
She clenched the necklace pendant in her hand and let her thoughts wander. The boy's golden hair, light blue eyes, and silly ahoge all proved his bloodline, but the necklace itself confirmed it was family—how else could it resonate with him?
He had made a contract with a dragon, a sign that legends would surely speak of him someday. Whether the dragon revealed its true form was another matter.
Despite the dragon's presence, no court magician Merlin accompanied the boy. If he truly were the future king, Merlin wouldn't have allowed him to roam freely. Kings not fully grown could crumble easily.
Morgan's eyes scanned the boy. She saw no trace of the Sword of the Chosen King anywhere on him. The legendary Golden Sword of Victory was nowhere to be found in that small space on his chest.
She mused, I didn't expect Uther to have another child besides Arthur. How many siblings did he hide from me? After his death, he lost all sense of integrity.
If Aslan overheard this, he'd surely shake his head. Father? Changed by the speculations of a distant cousin? As the son of the White Dragon, what did Uther's affairs matter?
Morgan stood and paced twice, then placed the pendant on the table, pouring magic into it. This boy wasn't the future King Arthur, so she would first seek out others of the bloodline. Even if the true king was hidden deep, she'd find him through comparison.
The gem clouded with magic and began to glow dimly. Before the entire map could fully appear, Morgan suddenly dropped the pendant and grabbed her staff.
A window shattered with a thunderous crash. A magician from the mainland burst through, a staff ablaze with flickering serpentine flames writhing around him. The flaming snakes surged at Morgan.
She snorted coldly. Who dared attack her in Great Britain? Was it the followers of the so-called King Arthur, or servants of the old man Vortigern?
Magicians didn't kill one another lightly—unless there was deep hatred, theft of family magic, or perhaps something more extreme like the later Holy Grail War.
Morgan swung her black staff. The dark flames erupted like a bird taking flight, scattering the fire snakes with ease before engulfing the attacker's entire body. His screams echoed through the castle.
The scream was a signal. Shadows erupted as more magicians stormed in. One swung an axe, chopping at Morgan's door.
It was the Middle Ages—barbaric and brutal.
"You must be the witch Morgan. No grudges now, but for the future—die here!" one shouted.
Morgan clenched her fists and pulled a red light from the magician's chest as if crushing his heart. "How shameless!"