The dawn came slow and heavy that morning, the sky a bruised swirl of gray that promised rain.
Morgan stood at the crest of a gentle hill, watching the flickering campfires in the valley below.
Jaune was already awake, moving quietly among the tents, offering smiles and nods to the wary villagers who had gathered beneath her banner.
She envied his calm.
Her thoughts churned, twisting between the weight of her lineage and the fragile hope she nurtured.
A sharp rustle behind her drew Morgan's attention.
Jaune approached, carrying a bundle of fresh bread and dried meat.
"Thought you might be hungry," he said, cheeks flushed from the morning chill.
Morgan took the food, their fingers brushing briefly.
The memory sparked, clear and bittersweet — the night they fled the castle, Jaune's steady hand guiding her through the dark forest, the quiet promise whispered between hurried breaths.
That night had changed everything.
She looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"You remember the first time we fought Saxons?" she asked softly, breaking the silence.
Jaune nodded, eyes distant.
"I do."
Morgan's voice grew firmer.
"You were so scared. I had to pull you back when you almost took that arrow meant for me."
Jaune chuckled without humor.
"I was terrified. Killing someone... it changes you."
Morgan's gaze met his, steady and understanding.
"It did for me too. But we survived."
A messenger galloped into the camp, mud splattering his boots as he dismounted with urgency.
Morgan stepped forward, the weight of her crown invisible but undeniable.
The rider handed her a parchment, breathless.
With shaking fingers, Morgan broke the seal and read:
"Vortigern marches with all his might. Artoria returns. The fate of Britain hangs in the balance."
Jaune placed a hand on her shoulder.
"We're not alone."
Morgan swallowed hard.
"No, we are not."
The camp stirred as riders dashed out to ready the troops.
Morgan and Jaune rode side by side through the forest, memories threading through the present:
The first awkward moments of their alliance, when she had been a sheltered princess and he a clumsy farm boy;
The long nights debating strategy by firelight;
The quiet mornings sharing stories of home and hope.
As they neared the battlefield, a distant horn sounded — low and mournful.
Morgan's heart pounded.
Jaune reached for her hand.
"We face the storm together."
The clash was thunderous.
Steel rang against steel, cries of battle pierced the air.
Morgan wielded her magic with fierce grace, shielding the villagers and striking down foes.
Jaune fought with the stubborn courage of a man who had lost everything but his honor.
Amid the chaos, a figure in gleaming armor appeared — Artoria, radiant and resolute, a beacon of hope and rivalry.
Their eyes met across the fray — sister against sister, queen against queen, bound by blood but divided by fate.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the battle reached its crescendo.
Vortigern's forces began to falter under the combined strength of Morgan and Artoria's armies.
But Morgan's gaze lingered on Jaune, wounded yet unyielding, standing firm beside her.
Later, as the camp settled in uneasy silence, Morgan sat beside Jaune's fire, tending his wounds with gentle hands.
He winced but did not complain.
"Did I do well?" he asked, voice rough.
"You were extraordinary," Morgan said, her voice soft but certain.
Jaune smiled faintly, exhaustion shadowing his eyes.
"Would you still want to be queen?" he whispered.
Morgan paused, the flickering flames reflecting in her thoughtful gaze.
"I don't know," she admitted.
"But I do know this — whatever the crown demands, I won't face it alone."
The night deepened, carrying with it the promise of battles yet to come and a fragile peace worth fighting for.
And beneath the endless stars, two souls forged a bond that no war could break.