"I can't believe this is happening!"
"Stop shouting and get dressed already!"
"Shut it, both of you!"
"Just be thankful we're still alive."
Inside a grand room in the palace, about a dozen n stood, half-dressed and humiliated. It was an awkward, almost comical sight. Despite the bizarre situation, there was a reason for it.
These n were once noble advisors in King Arthur's court, the very ones who had counseled him in his reign. But the old order had fallen. During the siege, those who resisted Ivan's Legion had been slaughtered on the spot, with no rcy shown to anyone who dared fight back. These nobles, however, had chosen a different path—they had knelt, surrendering themselves to Gevurah's dominion.
Their loyalty had shifted not out of respect, but survival.
Now, they found themselves still alive, but prisoners in their own kingdom. They were forced to serve under Ivan's new regi, helping Gwenyra oversee the rebuilding of Calot. Day after day, they were watched like hawks, assembled in a room to complete nial tasks—filling out docunts, signing decrees—under constant surveillance.
Today was different. Today, they were herded into another room and told to strip down, not for any grotesque or malicious reason, but to select attire befitting the upcoming wedding. It was to be a grand affair, a union between two great forces. The nobles had no choice but to participate, even if the ceremony was nothing more than a public farce designed for the caras.
One by one, the n awkwardly chose their garnts, dressed in lavish noble attire that once symbolized their power but now felt like a mockery. The ambiance was really awkward, especially with Ivan's guards standing watch—five of them, so of whom were won. The elderly nobles blushed with sha, embarrassed by the exposure of their aging bodies in front of younger eyes.
It was a humiliation none could voice aloud of course.
anwhile, in another room, a similar process was taking place for the noblewon, who were also being carefully monitored. Only won from Ivan's Legion oversaw them, but that did little to ease the discomfort of the situation.
The wedding, as grand as it was ant to be, was a hollow spectacle. Though it would be broadcast to the public, no one present had truly given their consent. There was no joy, no celebration, only the threat of consequences. Every noble, every citizen, had a role to play before the caras—directed by none other than Charlie Dust, the propagandist capturing the charade on film.
They had been warned—no, threatened—to behave exactly as Ivan's regi wished. Any sign of rebellion, any hint of disobedience, and their families, already held hostage, would suffer the consequences.
As they stepped out of the hall, ready to move on, they crossed paths with a group of noblewon erging from the neighboring room. For a brief mont, their eyes t in awkward silence, but the tension was quickly interrupted by the rising voices of the n nearby.
"Is that really you, Lady Millow?"
"I never imagined Lady adow could look this stunning in formal attire..."
"I can't believe what I'm seeing."
The surprised, and sowhat condescending, remarks from the noblen sparked a ripple of discomfort among the won. Many of the noblewon grimaced in annoyance.
In the court hall, although they were all dressed well, the won had not been quite as extravagantly made up or adorned. But now, with their elaborate gowns and excessive gloss, the sudden change was jarring, catching the n off guard. Until now, many of them had viewed the noblewon as little more than irkso presences—hardly worthy of such admiration.
"Move."
The n of Gevurah shoved the noblen aside, pushing forward with no regard for social niceties. To them, these nobles were all the sa—living only to handle the trivial matters that they found beneath their concern.
"Is that truly the end, Lord Lucan?" Lady adow asked as she approached a middle-aged man who had remained silent throughout the commotion.
Lucan, one of the highest-ranking nobles in Arthur's court, was also Bedivere's younger brother. His face was etched with weariness.
"I suppose so. All of the Knights of the Round Table have been defeated," he replied somberly.
The Knight of the Round Table founded by Arthur Pendragon and it was thanks to them that he ahd conquered all Britannia. And these sa people had been defeated until the last one.
"And rlin? We haven't seen her," Lady adow asked.
Lucan let out a bitter laugh. "She probably fled the mont she sensed the danger. She always knew what was coming."
Lady adow frowned and shook her head. "For all her flaws, rlin was always loyal to Arthur. I believe there's a reason she left before the attack. It doesn't make sense for her to abandon us without cause."
"Even if she has a plan, it won't matter against them," Lucan said grimly. His voice lowered as if recalling a terrible mory. "No one can stand against these... monsters."
His mind flashed back to the horrific scene he had witnessed—where a re boy, no older than fifteen, with tousled blond hair, had effortlessly slaughtered the most battle-hardened knights of the Round Table. They were veterans of war, warriors who had faced countless enemies, and yet this child had cut through them as if they were no more than helpless children.
A monster.
Lucan shuddered at the mory, the echo of that boy's murderous aura still sending chills through him.
That boy was stronger than even Arthur Pendragon himself—a fact that seed utterly absurd.
Lucan struggled to accept it, but there was no denying the overwhelming power Ivan's Legion possessed. And worse still, that boy wasn't even their leader. Lucan had once believed that no force could ever topple them, that Britannia's strength was unmatched. But now, the cold reality set in: they were powerless.
All they could do was obey, serve, and hope to remain useful enough not to be discarded like so many others who had resisted.
Lady adow stood in silence beside him. She had never seen Lucan so defeated, his proud shoulders sagging under the crushing burden of their loss. It seed, to her, like the end of their beloved Britannia—an empire that had stood strong for this last decade, now crumbling beneath the heel of Ivan's Legion.
They reached the grand throne hall where the wedding ceremony was to take place, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. As they stepped inside, the nobles couldn't help but gape. The decorations were beyond anything they had ever seen, even surpassing the splendor of Arthur's own coronation, for those old enough to rember it.
The sheer grandeur was overwhelming—lavish drapes of gold and crimson, towering floral arrangents, and rows upon rows of chairs ticulously arranged along both sides of the hall. The nobles, silenced by awe and dread, took their seats one by one, filling the hall in anticipation of the event.
The wedding of two great powers was about to unfold, and despite their personal feelings, despite their nervousness, they waited eagerly for the arrival of the bride and groom.
***
anwhile, in Gwenyra's private quarters.
A handful of won surrounded her, busy with their tasks. Gwenyra sat in a plush chair in front of a large mirror, her reflection almost unrecognizable. Her face, already beautiful, had been enhanced—her eyes frad by shimring highlights, her lips glossed to perfection.
The royal maids had been returned to her for this occasion, two familiar faces from her past, carefully preparing her for the most important and dreaded day of her life. They worked in concert with a professional artist, ensuring that every detail of her appearance was flawless.
"You look truly stunning, Princess," Clita, Gwenyra's personal maid, said warmly as she finished styling her hair, gently laying the final strands into place.
"Thank you, Clita," Gwenyra replied, forcing a bitter smile. Her beauty, now radiant, felt like a cruel irony. Despite the complints, she found no joy in her reflection, nor in the day ahead.
She had always known that, as a princess, her marriage would be arranged. Love had never been sothing she expected; her duty was to secure an alliance that would benefit Britannia. But the reality of her situation was far more brutal than any of her youthful imaginings.
Her groom was not a prince from a neighboring kingdom, not a noble seeking peace, but the very man who had brought her holand to its knees. He was the one who had laid waste to her city, the one responsible for the deaths of so many of her people. And now, she was to stand beside him as his wife.
But even if her heart refused, Gwenyra knew her duty as a princess remained unchanged. For the sake of Britannia, she would do what was necessary—even if it ant marrying a monster. This sacrifice had always been expected of her.
Clita, her loyal handmaiden, carefully finished tying back Gwenyra's long, silken hair before gently placing the delicate bridal veil over her face. The painstaking preparation was finally complete.
Rising gracefully, Gwenyra let the full length of her stunning white wedding gown cascade around her, the fabric shimring with each movent.
"Princess," Clita murmured softly, handing her a small bouquet of red roses. Gwenyra accepted the flowers, cradling them in her hands.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. She pushed aside any lingering doubts or fears. There was no room for hesitation now.
Straightening her posture, Gwenyra left her chambers, her maids following closely behind, as she walked toward her new dark life.
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