The morning of the battle dawned heavy and gray.
The clouds hung low, leaden and oppressive, and the air was thick with the promise of rain.
Morgan stood at the edge of the ridge above the valley, her spellbook clutched in one gloved hand, and surveyed the narrow plain below.
Saxons.
At least eighty of them, if her count was correct—and she was always correct.
They moved like a creeping shadow between the trees at the valley floor: shields bristling, spears glinting faintly in the dull light, a roaring black tide of steel and flesh.
At their head rode a tall warrior with a red cloak and a great iron helm shaped like a snarling beast. His aura was ugly—heavy and foul, an intrusive smear of Od she could taste in the back of her throat even at this distance.
Jaune stood beside her, adjusting his breastplate in silence.
When at last she spoke, her voice was quiet but firm.
"You don't have to be here."
He snorted faintly, tightening the straps on his gauntlets.
"And let you have all the fun? Not a chance, Your Highness."
Morgan glanced at him, catching his crooked grin, and found—frustratingly—that the corner of her own lips twitched upward despite herself.
"You're insufferable."
"You're welcome."
The villagers who'd sheltered them the past two nights were huddled in the hills behind them, too old or too weak to fight, watching in fearful silence as the Saxon war-band drew closer.
Morgan closed her eyes and extended her senses outward, feeling the currents of the leyline beneath her boots. This was old ground—hungry ground—stained by blood long before even Uther's ancestors had dreamed of kingship.
Perfect.
She opened her eyes again, blue as ice, and met Jaune's gaze.
"Ready?"
"Always."
Then he drew his sword and stepped forward to meet the oncoming horde.
It began as a clash of steel.
Jaune led the charge, his Aura flaring like a beacon as he slammed into the Saxon vanguard. His blade gleamed as he cut down the first man, pivoted, then rammed his shoulder into another to send him sprawling.
Morgan stayed just behind him at first, weaving her spells with calm precision.
She whispered a string of ancient words and raised her hand, sending jagged spears of earth bursting from the ground to impale three Saxons at once. Another wave of her hand, and the air thickened into a choking fog, throwing the enemy into confusion as Jaune cut through them like a plow through fresh snow.
"Left!" she called sharply.
Jaune twisted just in time to block a blow from an axe, then drove his boot into the attacker's chest and sent him tumbling down the slope.
They moved like clockwork now—clumsy at first, but steadily more fluid, as though her mind and his had begun to sync.
When a Saxon broke through and tried to flank her, Jaune was already there, cutting him down.
When Jaune stumbled back, overwhelmed by sheer numbers, she hissed a spell and sent a wave of raw force that hurled the enemy back like leaves before a gale.
And together, they carved a path of ruin through the valley floor.
At some point, the rain began.
It fell in sheets, turning the ground to mud and washing the blood into red rivulets between the stones.
Morgan's hair clung damply to her face as she slammed her staff into the earth and summoned a circle of glowing runes beneath her feet.
"Cover me," she snapped.
"Got it!"
Jaune planted himself at her side as she began the long incantation.
Saxon after Saxon came at them, but his blade never faltered. He caught a spear on his shoulder and kept going, a streak of crimson running down his arm but his movements steady, his eyes fierce.
When at last she spoke the final word, the ground shuddered.
And from the ridge behind them came the Wild Hunt.
They weren't truly horses—more like shadows given form, hooves and eyes of fire, manes of smoke. Riders without faces, wielding lances of lightning and swords of black wind.
Morgan had never summoned more than one before.
Now she summoned ten.
They swept down the slope like an avalanche, trampling through the Saxon lines, leaving chaos and terror in their wake.
The enemy faltered, broke.
And fled.
When it was over, the valley was quiet again, except for the rain and the sound of Jaune's ragged breathing.
Morgan stood amidst the wreckage, chest rising and falling, her cloak torn and spattered with mud and blood.
She dismissed the last of the Hunt with a sharp gesture and turned to Jaune.
He was kneeling over a Saxon body, staring down at his blood-streaked hands.
This was not his first kill—he'd gotten over that, barely—but this was his first battle. Dozens dead by his sword alone, not in self-defense but in war.
She approached slowly, unsure what to say.
When she crouched beside him, he didn't look up.
Instead, he muttered, almost to himself:
"It's never enough, is it? No matter how many you kill… there's always more."
Morgan was silent for a moment, then reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"That," she said softly, "is why we keep fighting."
He looked at her then, rain dripping from his bangs into his eyes.
And she held his gaze steadily, her own expression unreadable, though her fingers tightened ever so slightly on his shoulder.
They buried the dead at dawn.
Jaune dug the graves himself, one after another, until his hands blistered and bled.
Morgan didn't stop him. She stood watch, warding the perimeter with quiet spells, but didn't intervene.
When at last he sank to his knees, exhausted and covered in mud, she walked over and pressed a flask of water into his hands.
He drank without a word.
Then—after a long pause—he glanced up at her, something almost like a smile twitching at his lips.
"You're still here."
"Where else would I be?"
"Thought you might've decided I was too much trouble by now."
She sniffed haughtily, though there was no real heat behind it.
"Don't flatter yourself, Arc. You're only useful as long as you keep killing Saxons for me."
"…Right."
But that night, after they returned to their campfire and she sat beside him under the stars, she didn't move away when his shoulder brushed hers.
And when he finally fell asleep against her, his head resting on her lap, she found herself tracing absent patterns through his hair with her fingers before she even realized what she was doing.
The next morning, as they set out toward the next village, Morgan walked a half-step behind him.
And when a farmer's daughter along the way tried to press a flower into Jaune's hand, Morgan's frostiest glare yet sent the poor girl fleeing.
Jaune merely raised an eyebrow.
"Jealous again?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, brushing past him with her chin held high.
But the faint color in her cheeks betrayed her words.
The larger battle marked a turning point—not just for the villagers, who now whispered her name with reverence and his with quiet awe—but for them.
He fought for her now without question.
And she, despite herself, began to think of their little campfire under the stars as… home.
Even if she'd never admit it aloud.