Galahad's world had shattered.
He stood frozen in the hallway of Camelot, the Sword of David trembling in his grip, his eyes fixed on the scene beyond the golden strip curtains. Lancelot. The queen. The king's bed.
Lancelot.
The name burned in his mind like acid.
This was not just any knight. This was the knight Arthur trusted most. His man of war. His brother in all but blood. The one who had stood beside him through countless battles, who had bled for Camelot, who had sworn loyalty until death.
And now this.
Galahad's emotions erupted.
Not just as a knight. Not just as a servant of Camelot. As a husband. As a man. As a father. He knew what betrayal meant. Knew the weight of it, the destruction it caused. He had seen marriages crumble, families break, kingdoms fall.all because of moments like this.
The Sword of David began to vibrate in his hand.
The blade felt his righteous anger. It responded to the purity of his fury. This was not blind rage this was justice. This was righteousness. Lancelot had committed the highest crime a knight could commit. He had betrayed his king, his oaths, his honor.
There was only one answer.
Galahad jumped.
He soared through the air, the Sword of David raised high, its edge gleaming with holy light. He would demand answers. He would demand an explanation for this high-ranking betrayal. And then
He would judge.
But before he could throw the blade, before he could bring it down
A voice.
From the ground.
Arthur.
"Excalibur."
The word was quiet. Broken. Desperate.
"Chains of Boundage."
The blade of Excalibur was not with him. It lay somewhere else in his chambers, perhaps, or on the battlefield where he had left it. But Arthur did not need the physical form to draw on its power.
Because the true Excalibur the non-physical form, the soul of the blade lived in his heart.
It had always lived there.
From the moment he had pulled it from the stone, the sword had chosen him. Had bound itself to him. Had become part of his very being. The physical blade was merely a tool a focus for the power that already existed within him.
To draw its full power, he needed the physical form.
But for this for this small, desperate act his heart was enough.
Light exploded from Arthur's chest.
Chains—made of pure, golden light—erupted from him. They wrapped around Galahad mid-leap, coiling around his arms, his legs, his sword. They bound him completely, halting his momentum, suspending him in the air like a fly in amber.
The Sword of David was taken.
One of the chains snatched it from Galahad's grip, holding it aloft, keeping it from its master.
Galahad struggled against his bonds. His muscles bulged. His will strained. But the chains held. They would hold. Because they were not made of metal or magic—they were made of Arthur's heart.
And that heart, broken as it was, was still strong.
Arthur looked up at him.
His face was wet with tears. His eyes were hollow, empty. But beneath the emptiness, something still burned. Something that refused to let go.
"Please, Galahad." Arthur's voice cracked. "Please don't do this."
Galahad stared down at him, his chest heaving, his eyes wild.
"The last thing I would want," Arthur continued, "is for there to be discord among us."
He gestured weakly at the chains at the light that bound his knight.
"Together, because of us, we have built something strong. Something beautiful. It would be a shame a tragedy to let it be destroyed."
He looked past Galahad, toward the golden curtains, toward the betrayal that waited beyond.
"I have to keep it together." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Somehow. I have to keep it together."
He closed his eyes.
The chains dissolved.
Galahad dropped to the ground, landing lightly, his sword clattering beside him. He stood there, frozen, his emotions a hurricane in his chest. He wanted to scream. Wanted to rage. Wanted to finish what he had started.
But Arthur's words held him.
The king sat on the cold marble floor, his face covered by his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He was broken. Destroyed. Empty.
And yet—he still held on.
To Camelot.
To his knights.
To the dream they had built together.
Galahad looked at him for a long, long moment. Then he looked at the curtain. At the shadows beyond. At the betrayal that would never be forgotten.
He said nothing.
He could say nothing.
The Sword of David lay at his feet, its light dimmed, its purpose confused.
And in the silence of that hallway, a kingdom cracked
Arthur's eyes opened.
He was still in the sky, still falling toward the battlefield, still Arthur. The memory faded like morning mist, leaving behind only the weight of what had been.
He had held them together. That day. Had stopped Galahad from acting, had prevented a war within Camelot before it could begin.
But the cracks had remained.
And now, in Valhalla, those cracks were widening.
He looked down at the battlefield—at the darkness where Lancelot floated, at the knights who had followed him through everything—and knew.
The reckoning was coming.
One way or another.