The son of Arthur drew his sword completely.
The black blade gleamed in the grey light curved at the tip, forged from metal that had never seen the sun. He held it at his side, relaxed, waiting. His face was calm, almost bored.
He remained silent.
Sir Bors and Sir Gareth remained on guard. Their bodies were positioned in front of each other shoulder to shoulder, blade to blade a formation they had used a hundred times, a thousand times. It was instinct now. Survival.
Even in this type of place even after everything that had happened, even after the betrayal that had destroyed their kingdom they had no other option but to fight him.
With killing intent.
The emotional bond they shared the love they had felt for the child he had once been was still there. Buried. Festering. That bond had caused their deaths in the living world. Had led them to hesitate when they should have struck, to doubt when they should have been certain.
It had cost them their lives.
Not only that it had cost the life of their king.
Bors held his blade straight in his left hand.
His right hand hung at his side relaxed, ready. His eyes were fixed on Mordred's face, on the familiar features that had once brought them joy, that had once made them hope.
Why, he thought, do we have to be so unlucky? In this life and in the past?
He looked at the young man before him at the son of Arthur, at the traitor, at the monster they had helped raise.
Why did such a child have to exist?
He closed his eyes.
A memory came.
Not a battle. Not a training session. Not a moment of glory or grief.
Something gentler.
He saw a smaller version of Arthur's son a boy, no more than five years old, with dark hair and bright eyes and a smile that could melt the coldest heart. He was sitting on Arthur's shoulders, his small hands gripping his father's crown, his laughter echoing through the halls of Camelot.
All the knights of the Round Table had loved that boy.
They had watched him take his first steps. Had taught him to hold a wooden sword. Had believed in him.
You child of Arthur, Bors thought, the words heavy in his mind. Your existence was once a blessing to us. You brought good luck to the empire.
The memory shifted.
The year Mordred was born there had been no war in Camelot. No border skirmishes. No raids from neighboring kingdoms. It was as if the world itself had paused to celebrate his arrival.
Instead of conflict, there had been peace.
Instead of death, there had been life.
You were such a wonder, Bors thought. Kings from different territories all came to see you. To pay homage. To offer gifts.
He remembered them the processions of foreign dignitaries, the piles of treasure, the hope that had filled the air like perfume.
And the prophecy...
When Arthur's son was born, a blind man had been summoned to Camelot.
Not a healer. Not a seer in the traditional sense. His job was to see beyond the physical realm. To peer into the realm of fate.
The realm of fate was not a spiritual realm. Nor was it a mental realm. It was something that could not be explained a place that existed outside of time, outside of space, outside of understanding.
Only the Fate Seekers could perceive it.
And even they struggled to describe it.
When asked what they saw, there was no straight answer. No direct explanation. To some Fate Seekers, the realm of fate appeared as an infinite silver thread that filled the entire world. Each thread represented a human being their birth, their life, their death. The threads were never-ending, encompassing all past, all future, and all present.
To others, it was a river. A flame. A song.
No two seekers saw the same thing.
But they all agreed on one thing: the child Arthur held in his arms was special.
They hyped him. Spoke of him in whispers and wonder. They said he would bring a new age an impossible age, one that could not exist under the normal laws of fate.
The knights of Camelot had celebrated.
They had believed.
And truly the prophecy was right.
Mordred had brought about an impossible age.
One that did not exist.
He brought a golden age of mystics and peace to an end.
Bors was lost in his thoughts.
The memories swirled around him like fog the child on Arthur's shoulders, the foreign kings, the hope that had turned to ash. He could not escape them. Could not push them away.
And then
Mordred appeared in front of him.
The son of Arthur had moved without sound, without warning, without mercy. His black blade was still at his side he had not raised it but his presence was suffocating.
"Hey."
His voice was calm. Almost gentle.
"What's going on?" He tilted his head, studying Bors's face. "Have you gotten so emotional that you're unable to maintain your mind in battle?"
He gestured at Bors's frozen form at the sword held in a death grip, at the eyes that had drifted inward instead of watching the enemy.
"Look at you." Mordred's smile was cold. "If I wanted to kill you in this moment... I highly doubt there would have been anything stopping me."
His hand moved.
WHAM!
His fist crashed into Bors's face not with the force of a weapon, but with the precision of a surgeon. The impact snapped Bors's head back. His nose cracked. Blood sprayed from his nostrils.
And he flew.
His body launched backward, tumbling across the sand, limbs flailing, sword spinning from his grip. He crashed against a rock and slumped, stunned, broken.
Mordred did not follow.
He stood where he was, his fist still extended, his expression unchanged.
"Now." He lowered his hand. "I shall begin the slaughter."
He looked at Gareth at the knight who still stood, who still held his blade, who still breathed.
"Stand ready, uncles." His voice was almost kind. "This is going to be my last form of respect for you."
Bors lay among the rocks, bleeding.
Gareth stood alone, his sword raised, his heart pounding.
And Mordred smiled.