From the moment the Crown Princess mastered her forged lance, the King ensured her training rivaled that of the fiercest warriors in his court. He knew she was stronger than any man, and he took great pride in it. To see those who claimed and to claim what they were not, and could never be. And so when the whispers of her unmatched power began to reach beyond Babyloniah, suitors from neighboring kingdoms flocked to the annual ritual, hoping to be victorious, and most of all, set on becoming what their title in name only said they were. It was then that Gilgamesh saw an opportunity to yet again piss off the council and the gods, at the same time.
It would not be a marriage trial, nor a Rite of Challenge, but an Olympic event, with challenges designed to test every aspect of a warrior's might. archery, endurance trials, and, of course, the final duel.
The day of the tournament, the crowd was alive.
A sea of nobles, knights, and common folk gathered in the grand coliseum, their voices merging into a fevered roar. The Crown Princess was to prove herself today. At the highest balcony, the royal family sat, overlooking the arena. Gilgamesh stood at the edge, arms crossed, his crimson gaze steady as he watched his daughter step onto the sands below. Arthuriasat beside him, silent, but he could feel her tension. She hadn't objected to this. Hadn't argued. But she had gripped his arm the night before, her voice barely above a whisper when she said,
"She's only thirteen, Gil."
And now, as Artizea stood alone in the arena, sword in hand, he felt the weight of his wife's unspoken fears.
A few seats away, Ishtar and Demeter observed with keen interest.
Ishtar smirked, her crimson eyes gleaming. She always enjoyed watching.
Demeter, however, was unreadable, her gaze fixed on the girl below.
Because today was not just a test. Today was Artizea's first battle.
And her opponent—A Manticore. Half-lion. Half-scorpion. A beast of legends and nightmares.
Its venomous stinger dripped, claws capable of ripping through steel.
The king did not move. Did not speak.
Neither did Arthuria. She only sat rigid, hands clasped in her lap, eyes never leaving their daughter.
The manticore roared.
And the battle began.
The beast struck first. It was Fast. Merciless. But Artizea was faster.
She moved like fire, weaving through claws and venom, dodging by mere inches.
The crowd gasped, watching as the girl sidestepped, parried, struck.
Every movement was precise. Calculated.
She fought with the ferocity of a Pendragon and the ruthlessness of Babaloniyan.
And her father saw it.
She did not falter. She did not hesitate. Her eyes were Red like embers. Red like war.
The fight stretched on—minutes that felt like hours. Then— An opening.
A feint to the left. A clean strike to the neck. And then—silence.
The manticore collapsed.
Blood pooled across the sands. The Crown Princess stood victorious.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
And Artizea—barely breathing, sweat-lined—turned her gaze to the royal box.
To him.
The king held her stare. although so far away he hared her lound and clear.
"dad—"
Then with a single motion.
She only turned to her husband.
Her voice was soft. Fractured. "I can't." She meant it.
He understood immediately. He said nothing, only nodded once.
By the time the ceremony began, the tension from earlier had dissipated, though the memory of what happened still lingered.
Artizea was dressed in a regal black and red armor, the colors of her lineage, her golden hair intricately braided.
With her ancestral babaloniyan red cloak flowing behind her.
The grand throne room of Babylonia gleamed beneath the glow of golden chandeliers.
Banners bearing the Pendragon crest draped from the marble columns, their crimson fabric whispering in the air. Lords and ladies stood in solemn anticipation, their voices hushed, waiting.
And at the far end of the hall, Artizea Pendragon stood at the entrance, the long aisle stretching before her like a path carved by fate.
Her chest tightened. The weight of her armor, gleaming in black and red, felt heavier than it had ever been. Gold accents traced along the intricate plating, echoing the brilliance of her father's rule.
The ancestral Babylonian cloak of deep red flowed behind her, each step promising to mark her as the future queen.
But her feet did not move.
The memories clung to her—the fire, the fear, the screams.
She remembered the day when her powers had first surged beyond her control.
The throne room had been scorched, knights thrown back, civilians left trembling. And though her father had forgiven her, though her mother had held her through the night, she had never forgotten.
What right do I have to be Crown Princess?
Her hands trembled, fingers clenching the hem of her cloak. Every pair of eyes seemed to watch, waiting. Judging.
But then—a presence.
To her right, Arthur stood tall, His hand brushed against hers, a quiet reassurance. He did not speak. On her left, Eugene walked with his usual stoic grace. Composed, unreadable. But his presence was steady, grounding her like the roots of an ancient tree. And behind her, Elaine, vibrant and glowing, carried the train of her cloak with pride. Despite the ceremonial weight of the fabric, she held it effortlessly, like it were a privilege to stand beside her sister.
Together, they moved.
Artizea stepped forward.
The hall was silent but for the rhythmic echo of her armored boots against the polished floor.
The lords bowed their heads. The knights lowered their swords in a gesture of honor.
She kept her chin high, though the trembling inside her chest remained.
With each step, the shadows of her past pulled at her, whispering of failure. Yet Arthur's steady gaze, Egune's unwavering presence, and Elaine's quiet joy carried her onward.
And then she was there.
The throne loomed before her, golden and unyielding. Its ancient carvings told stories of kings and queens long gone. And waiting for her—King Gilgamesh.
He stood, his imposing figure clad in gleaming golden armor. Crimson eyes, filled with both pride and expectation, locked onto hers.
Beside him, Arthuria stood regal and composed, her silver hair woven into braids that framed her face. There was no trace of doubt in her expression.
Only belief.
Artizea's breath caught. She was no longer the trembling child who had lost control. She was here. And this time, she would not run.
She lowered herself into a bow, her golden hair cascading forward.
The throne room held its breath.
The king moved. He stepped forward, his heavy cloak trailing behind him.
The weight of his presence pressed upon the room, the embodiment of a king whose power had shaped kingdoms.
But when he reached her, his hands were gentle. One came to rest on her shoulder, steadying her.
Then, he leaned down, his lips brushing her forehead—a father's blessing.
When he straightened, his voice echoed through the great hall, resonant and absolute.
"Behold," he proclaimed, "Artizea Pendragon, Crown Princess of Babylonia—your future Queen."
The words sealed her fate.
A roar of voices followed. The court erupted in cheers, the knights raising their swords to the air.
"Long live the Crown Princess!"
Artizea's heart pounded. The weight in her chest lifted, replaced by something else. Something fierce. Something unbreakable.
She stood tall, her heart pounding as she looked out at the sea of faces.
Their cheers and smiles were genuine, their faith in her unwavering despite her earlier struggles.
She glanced at her siblings—Arthur grinning with pride, Eugene giving a small approving nod, and Elaine clapping enthusiastically.
As her gaze swept over the crowd, it landed on a young knight standing at the back of the hall.
Eric Quinn.
He gave her a subtle wink, his chestnut hair falling slightly over his forehead. Heat rose to her cheeks, but she kept her composure, her expression unyielding.
Her father's words echoed in her mind as she stood beside him, the weight of her title settling on her shoulders. "You're a Pendragon. Nothing controls a Pendragon. "
The grand courtyard was filled with an air of anticipation, and the citizens of Babylonia gathered in the thousands to witness the sacred ceremony.
This was the tradition for all firstborn heirs—a rite of passage that would mark them as the rightful successor to the throne.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the city as the crowd fell into hushed silence.
Artizea stood at the center of the ziggurat, her posture straight and proud despite the weight of the moment.
In her hands was a finely crafted bow, its gold and silver inlays glinting in the sunlight. Beside her, a single arrow rested, waiting for her to aim.
She glanced at the towering temple in the distance, its spire barely visible from where she stood.
Lighting the sacred flame of the grand temple with a single shot was no easy feat—it required precision, focus, and control.
More importantly, it demanded the mastery of her inner flame, something she had struggled with earlier that day.
Her heart pounded as she took the arrow in her hand,
Taking a deep breath, she steadied her trembling hands. She nocked the arrow, feeling the weight of it, the cool metal against her fingertips.
The crowd watched in tense silence, their faith in her palpable.
Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she focused on the flame within her, the fire that was her birthright. She could feel it, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed. You're in control, she reminded herself. This power is yours.
When she opened her eyes, they were fierce, glowing faintly as she drew the bowstring back.
The arrow ignited in her hands, the flames swirling around it like a living thing. The heat radiated from her, but she didn't waver.
The crowd held their breath as she aimed, her focus narrowing to a single point—the unlit brazier atop the grand temple, visible even from this great distance.
The world seemed to still, time slowing as she let the arrow fly. It soared through the air, a streak of fire cutting across the twilight sky.
For a moment, it was as if the entire kingdom leaned forward, watching its path. Then, as it reached its mark, the brazier ignited in a brilliant burst of flame, the sacred fire roaring to life.
Taking her rightful place in history.
It was official. She was their Crown Princess, their future, and the flame that would carry the Pendragon legacy forward.