Snow fell softly over the camp, blanketing the world in white and muffling every sound until the whole ridge felt like some distant, quiet dream.
Morgan stood outside her tent with her hands folded behind her back, watching the flakes swirl down.
It was so still here.
Even the wind had quieted, the air heavy with the hush of winter.
She might almost have believed she was alone in the world — no Camelot, no Vortigern, no crown.
Almost.
Her fingers flexed, and she felt again the weight of the battlefield under her feet — the chill of iron through her gloves, the screaming of dying men, the stink of blood in her hair.
Her victory.
Her hollow, bitter victory.
Artoria's army scattered, their banners trampled in the mud. The hill taken, the Saxons driven back for now.
Her name on the soldiers' lips that night — Queen Morgan, Queen Morgan — though no coronation had been held, and the land itself still resisted her in subtle ways.
It had not felt triumphant.
Not even close.
She turned her gaze westward, toward the cliffs she'd once dreamed of claiming.
If she reached out her hand now — just for a moment — she could feel the faint pulse of Britain's magic through her veins, restless and unresolved.
It wanted her.
But only because there was no one else here to take it.
For all her strength, all her ambition, all her careful maneuvering… it still wasn't enough.
She knew.
And worse: the longer she sat here, the more she began to wonder if she even wanted it anymore.
Behind her, the flap of the tent rustled, and she heard quiet footsteps in the snow.
Jaune's familiar presence settled beside her before she even glanced at him.
He didn't speak at first. Just stood there with his arms folded, his breath clouding in the frosty air, his golden hair catching faint glints of starlight.
He'd wrapped himself in a heavy fur cloak, though she could still see the stiff way he held himself — the lingering ache of his wounds.
Morgan's gaze flicked to his arm, still bandaged tightly, before she quickly looked away.
Weeks ago…
She remembered the way he'd thrown himself between her and the Saxon chieftain — foolish, suicidal — sword in one hand, shield in the other.
She remembered the sound of steel biting flesh, his blood splattering her cheek.
Her magic had burned so hot she hadn't even realized she was screaming until the enemy fell in two at her feet and she was on her knees beside him, shaking, trying to mend his wounds with hands that wouldn't stop trembling.
He'd opened his eyes then and smiled weakly at her.
"You're… crying," he'd said, as though surprised.
"You're staring again," he murmured now, breaking into her thoughts.
Morgan blinked and realized she'd been looking at his face for far too long.
"I was not," she said coolly.
"You were," he said.
She huffed and turned away, but not before she caught the faint smirk at the corner of his lips.
They stood there for a while, just watching the snow.
At length, he spoke again, his voice softer this time.
"You seem… quiet tonight," he observed.
"I'm always quiet," she said.
"You're always sharp," he corrected gently. "Tonight you're quiet."
Morgan didn't answer right away.
She let her gaze drift up to the stars, their cold, distant brilliance scattered across the heavens.
Finally, she asked, almost to herself:
"Do you think I would make a good queen?"
Jaune blinked. "What?"
She still didn't look at him, her tone flat.
"A queen," she repeated. "I've fought for this — bled for it. Everyone assumes that it's what I want. That I should want it. But I keep wondering…"
Her fingers curled in the fabric of her cloak.
"If the crown came with a choice — to sit on that throne, or to…"
She stopped herself abruptly.
But he was looking at her now, sharp and attentive in the way only Jaune Arc ever managed — as though she was the only thing in his world worth seeing.
"Or to what?" he asked quietly.
Morgan's throat tightened.
She swallowed.
"…Or to keep what little I have now," she finished.
The silence that followed was heavy.
He didn't answer right away.
Didn't say what she expected — what everyone else always said.
That she had a duty to the land.
That she was born to rule.
That she deserved it.
He just stood there for a long moment before saying, very softly:
"You already have everything I care about."
Her breath hitched faintly at that.
She didn't let it show — she never let it show — but the words lodged somewhere deep inside her, warm and heavy and terrifying.
That night she lay awake long after the camp had gone still, her eyes fixed on the dark canopy of her tent.
She couldn't stop thinking about it.
Not the crown, not the throne.
But him.
How easily he smiled at her, even when she snapped at him.
How thoughtlessly he'd thrown himself in front of a blade for her.
How utterly she'd come to rely on his quiet steadiness, his foolish hope, his maddening warmth.
If Britain itself demanded his life in exchange for hers…
Would she give him up?
Would she sit on that throne knowing the cost?
She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes until colors danced behind her lids.
She didn't know.
And that terrified her more than anything.
The next day passed uneventfully.
The snow kept falling, though lighter now, and the camp settled into its new rhythm — drills in the morning, supply lines in the afternoon, repairs to the palisades in the evening.
For a moment, it almost felt like they were just another border town preparing for winter rather than an army waiting for the next war.
Morgan found herself watching Jaune again during supper, where he sat with a cluster of soldiers, laughing softly at something one of them had said.
One of the village girls had tied a sprig of holly into his hair, and he hadn't even noticed yet.
Morgan's lips twitched faintly despite herself.
Later, as the fires burned low, she called him to her tent under the pretense of reviewing maps.
He arrived with his usual cheer, though his limp was more pronounced after a long day's work.
"Your Majesty," he teased, bowing with exaggerated flourish.
"Don't call me that," she snapped automatically, but there was no heat in it.
He chuckled and straightened.
They spent the next hour tracing supply routes through the snow, arguing over where to station watchtowers.
But the maps blurred before her after a while, her mind elsewhere.
Finally, she set down her quill and said quietly:
"Jaune."
He glanced up, eyebrow raised.
"If Britain demanded you…" she began slowly, "…if the land itself demanded your life as the price for my crown — would you give it?"
His expression shifted subtly, the humor fading into something more serious.
He considered her for a long moment before answering.
"Not if you didn't ask me to," he said simply.
Her breath caught.
She hadn't expected that.
After he left, she sat alone in the quiet, staring at the map without really seeing it.
For the first time since this whole mad campaign had begun, she wondered — truly wondered — if she was strong enough to be Queen.
Or if she even wanted to be.
That night she dreamed again of the oak tree.
But this time she stood at its roots alone, staring out over a storm-wracked sea.
And when she reached out her hand, she could feel both the crown and the boy slipping through her fingers like water.
In the morning she rose with the dawn, her resolve no clearer than it had been the night before.
But when she stepped outside, the air smelled faintly of snow and pine, and Jaune was already waiting by the ridge with two cups of steaming cider.
He handed her one without a word.
She accepted it without looking at him.
And for a little while, they just stood there in silence, watching the sun rise over their fragile, fleeting peace.
In the distance, the banners of Camelot and Vortigern still waited beyond the horizon — promises of future battles yet to come.
But for now…
For now the crown could wait.
And she allowed herself — just for this moment — to wonder what it might feel like to choose him instead.