The spring rain came suddenly that morning.
Morgan was awake before dawn — her body trained now to rise early — and she stood just outside her tent watching the gray clouds roll in.
The first drops were cold on her cheek.
In the distance, beyond the woods, the faint hum of voices and iron told her the Saxons were stirring again. Messengers from Camelot would no doubt arrive any day now as well — Artoria's recovery was almost complete, and Uther's final decree loomed like a shadow over her shoulder.
Yet for now, there was only the smell of wet earth and the steady rhythm of water falling on canvas and stone.
She closed her eyes and let it wash over her, savoring the fleeting stillness.
It was Jaune, of course, who interrupted her solitude.
He emerged from the supply tent with a bundle of dry wood and an infuriatingly cheerful smile despite the rain.
"Morgan," he greeted her as though nothing in the world was wrong.
She glanced over at him with her usual coolness.
"You'll ruin your boots," she said.
"I'll live," he replied easily.
"You'll track mud into the tents."
"I'll clean it up."
"Your hair looks ridiculous when it's wet."
That finally earned her a laugh — warm and unguarded — and she found herself biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling back.
"You know," he said, setting the wood down under a canvas lean-to, "you're a lot less scary when it rains."
She shot him a withering look.
"That was not a compliment," she said flatly.
"Wasn't it?"
He grinned at her then — all boyish charm and muddy boots — and she hated how her chest tightened just a little at the sight.
By midday, the rain had turned into a proper storm, and Morgan, against her better judgment, found herself sequestered in Jaune's tent instead of her own.
Not because she particularly wanted his company, of course — but because the wind had torn one side of her tent loose and she was not about to sit in a puddle like some common footsoldier.
At least that's what she told herself.
Jaune sat cross-legged on the floor, patching a tear in his cloak while Morgan perched on a stool, her arms crossed.
"Stop fidgeting," he told her without looking up.
"I am not fidgeting," she replied coolly, though she immediately stopped drumming her fingers on her sleeve.
He smirked faintly but said nothing, focusing on his stitches.
The tent was quiet save for the sound of rain on the canvas and the occasional snap of wind outside.
After a while, Morgan sighed and finally asked:
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what?" he said without looking up.
"Smile at me like that," she said, her tone sharp.
Now he did look up, his hands stilling.
"…like what?"
"Like you're not afraid of me," she clarified.
Jaune blinked at her, then chuckled softly.
"Because I'm not," he said simply.
That earned him a sharp glare.
"You should be," she informed him.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But I'm not."
Morgan turned away from him then, suddenly finding the sight of the rain through the tent flap more interesting than his insufferable earnestness.
But she couldn't quite stop her fingers from curling into her skirt where he couldn't see.
Later, when the storm eased and the camp returned to life, Jaune cooked a modest meal over a low fire — rabbit again, of course — and Morgan ate in silence beside him.
"You know," he said after a while, "when I first met you, I thought you hated me."
"That was not an incorrect assumption," she replied coolly.
He laughed at that, shaking his head.
"But you kept me around anyway," he pointed out.
Morgan hesitated, then said softly:
"You… were useful."
His grin widened.
"Of course," he said lightly. "Always happy to be useful."
But there was something in his eyes — something that said he saw right through her words — and she found herself looking away before he could say anything else.
That evening, as the sun broke through the clouds and painted the camp gold, Morgan surprised even herself when she suggested they walk beyond the walls.
"Won't the guards panic?" Jaune asked, falling into step beside her.
"Let them," she said.
They ended up on a low ridge overlooking the river.
Below them, the water rushed fast and high from the rains, glinting in the dying light.
Morgan stood there for a long time, arms folded, watching the river.
"Do you ever wish," she murmured at last, "you could just… let it all go?"
Jaune studied her profile — the way her hair caught the last of the light, the faint crease between her brows — and asked quietly:
"What would you do if you did?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she asked:
"If Britain demanded you — you, Arc — in exchange for the throne… would you give yourself up?"
Jaune was quiet for a long moment.
Then, softly:
"…If Britain demanded me?"
"Yes."
He met her gaze then, steady and unflinching.
"I'd tell Britain to go to hell," he said simply.
Morgan blinked, startled — then let out a faint, incredulous laugh before she could stop herself.
They lingered there on the ridge as the sun sank below the horizon, neither speaking, neither needing to.
When at last they returned to camp, the stars were out — bright and cold and endless.
That night, she dreamed of the garden again.
Not the bloody hill, not Artoria's cradle — but the garden.
The day Merlin had told her she could not bend Britain to her will.
She dreamed of herself as a little girl standing among the flowers, stubborn and furious and afraid.
But this time, when she looked up… Jaune was there, too.
Standing just behind her.
Smiling that same infuriating smile.
And for the first time, the little girl did not feel quite so alone.
She woke just before dawn, the dream still clinging to her.
And she knew — with a strange, quiet certainty — that whatever choice awaited her, she would not make it alone.
When she stepped out of her tent, the air was sharp and clear, the stars fading fast.
Jaune was already up, of course, polishing his sword by the fire.
He glanced up at her, his smile faint but real.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
She shook her head.
But she didn't go back inside.
Instead, she walked over, stood next to him, and watched the fire with him in silence.
And for that one last morning before the storm came crashing down on them, it was enough.
Chapter: The Seal of Fate
The air was still cool from the night, the dawn spreading pale light over the camp as Morgan and Jaune sat beside the dying embers of the fire.
Neither spoke much, both lost in their own thoughts — the fragile peace between them suspended in the calm before the storm.
It was Jaune who broke the silence.
"Did you ever think you'd be here?" he asked quietly, eyes fixed on the glowing coals.
Morgan considered the question, the shadows flickering over her face.
"No," she said finally. "I never imagined this. Not like this."
"Me neither," Jaune admitted. "But I'm glad you're here."
She looked at him then, really looked — the dirt-smudged face, the tired but steady gaze.
And for a moment, she let herself forget the weight of crowns and battles and futures not yet written.
That moment shattered with the sound of hooves.
A rider burst into the clearing, the horse's breath steaming in the cold morning air.
Morgan's heart tightened as the rider slowed, raising a hand in greeting before pulling a sealed letter from their saddlebag.
The seal — unmistakable: a golden lion rampant on crimson wax, the symbol of Camelot.
The messenger dismounted swiftly, bowing deeply.
"Your Highness," the man said, voice steady but eyes wary, "a message from Lady Artoria."
Morgan took the letter with trembling hands, breaking the wax seal and unfolding the parchment.
The handwriting was crisp, regal — Artoria's.
Morgan,
I write this as I recover from my wounds, with Merlin by my side and Uther's spirit watching over us all.
Our enemy grows bolder. Vortigern's forces press harder, threatening to shatter the fragile peace of our lands.
You have shown strength and courage beyond your years. The bond you share with Jaune Arc is not lost on us here in Camelot.
I urge you to hold fast to your convictions, but be wary — the path to the crown is fraught with peril, not only from our foes, but from within.
Know this: I do not seek war with you, sister. I seek only the unity and safety of Britain.
May the light guide your steps.
— Artoria Pendragon
Morgan's eyes narrowed as she read the words.
Not a summons, but a warning.
Not a declaration, but a challenge.
Jaune rested a hand on her shoulder, grounding her.
"You're not alone in this," he said softly.
She nodded, the familiar mixture of resolve and doubt settling back in her chest.
The days that followed were a whirlwind of preparation.
The camp buzzed with activity, as scouts rode out and villagers fortified their homes.
Morgan rode alongside Jaune through the forest paths, the weight of her mantle pressing down harder with each passing hour.
One afternoon, as they paused beside a quiet brook, Morgan finally let herself speak the question that had haunted her since the letter's arrival.
"Jaune… if you were me," she began hesitantly, "would you want to be queen?"
Jaune looked up from the water, his expression unreadable.
"I don't know," he admitted after a moment. "I think it depends on the kind of queen you want to be."
Morgan frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"A queen who rules by fear and duty, who sacrifices everything and everyone for her crown… or a queen who leads with her heart, who fights to protect those she loves, even if it means giving up power."
Morgan's gaze dropped to the rippling water.
The reflection she saw was fractured, split between the princess she was and the woman she could become.
That night, as the camp settled under a sky thick with stars, Morgan sat by the fire alone.
Her thoughts wandered back to the garden — the place where her dreams and nightmares intertwined.
If she took the crown, what would the cost be?
Could she live with the price?
Would Jaune survive it?
Or would she, like the storm-swept land beneath her feet, become broken and wild and lost?
She didn't notice when Jaune approached until he was sitting beside her.
"You're thinking too much," he said softly.
She looked at him, surprised.
"And what would you have me do instead?"
"Live," he replied simply.
Morgan shook her head, a bittersweet smile playing at her lips.
"To live is to fight," she whispered.
"But sometimes," Jaune said, "living is just knowing when to hold on, and when to let go."
The fire crackled between them, shadows dancing over their faces.
For a long moment, they simply sat in silence — two souls bound by fate, by war, and by a fragile hope.