The bed creaked and screamed beneath them, massive oak beams warping and splintering under the brutal rhythm of two titans locked together.
King Uther Pendragon grunted like a beast, hands crushing the hips of his queen as he drove into her with savage, desperate strength.
Wilda met him with equal fury — no helpless noblewoman, but a warrior, a conqueror, her nails raking his broad scarred back, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, dragging him deeper, harder, daring him to give her more.
The heavy curtains billowed from the storm howling against the castle walls.
The iron sconces on the stone walls shook and clattered, shedding droplets of melted wax across the cold stone floor.
The headboard shattered against the stone behind it with a final crack like thunder.
Their breath steamed in the cold air, their bodies slick with heat, their skin shining in the firelight, and their muscles straining under the force of their joining.
There was no gentleness here.
No soft words or false tenderness.
This was a forging.
A battle.
The creation of something greater than both of them.
Uther buried his face against Wilda's throat, his teeth scraping her skin as he growled low in her ear.
"A son. Stronger than any king before."
Wilda arched against him, grinding her hips upward in defiance, her voice rough and breathless with pride and hunger.
"A son who will bring the world to its knees."
She laughed — a low, throaty sound — biting his shoulder hard enough to draw a growl from deep in his chest.
"What shall we call him, my king?" she whispered against his skin, her nails digging into the thick slabs of muscle on his back.
Uther drove into her harder, each thrust a promise, a hammer blow against the anvil of destiny.
"Arthur," he rumbled. "He will be Arthur."
Wilda's fierce grey eyes locked with his — burning with the same fire.
"Arthur," she repeated, voice rough with triumph.
"Our Arthur."
The storm outside reached a crescendo, wind screaming around the castle, the heavens seeming to rage at the birth that had not yet come but was already inevitable.
Uther's deep voice, rough with strain, rose into a low, desperate roar, shaking the rafters above.
"By flame and steel, give me a son!"
And with that cry, he drove one final, savage thrust, shuddering with the release — a surge of raw power and will pour into Wilda, a king's final plea to the gods made flesh.
They collapsed together, tangled in ruined sheets and shattered wood, their hearts pounding in unison, their bodies steaming in the cold night air.
Above them, lightning slashed the sky.
Below them, deep within Wilda's womb, destiny stirred.
And far beyond them, the world they would one day leave behind — a broken world — held its breath.
Wilda lay beneath him, still trembling, her arms wrapped tight around Uther's thick neck, her bare legs tangled with his like vines around the trunk of a mighty oak.
Uther lowered his forehead to hers, panting, savouring the moment.
Then he grinned — a rare thing, fierce and wicked.
Without warning, he growled low in his chest and thrust again — slower now, deeper, drawing a sharp gasp from Wilda's lips.
The final surge hit her hard — the brutal, undeniable strength of a king whose body had been tempered by decades of war and conquest.
Uther was no weak monarch softened by court life.
He was a warlord made flesh, a man whose virility could break kingdoms and forge dynasties.
And now, in this one moment, he poured everything into her.
Not just seed.
Not just life.
Power.
Legacy.
The raw fury of a man who demanded not a son — but an heir who would carry the weight of the world and never stumble.
Inside Wilda's womb, a great tide rose — a flood of impossible magnitude, a tidal wave of life charged with Uther's towering strength and Wilda's unbreakable will.
Millions of sparks surged forward, driven by blind, desperate instinct.
And within that roaring ocean of potential,
Frank Armstrong stirred.
No mind.
Nobody.
No words.
Only motion.
Only the burning, primal need to survive.
For a heartbeat of time, he drifted.
Lost.
Confused.
The pressure around him grew—the unstoppable current of life trying to drown him and sweep him away into nothingness.
If he faltered, even for a moment, he would vanish — another forgotten soul swallowed by the tide.
But Frank had never been one to surrender.
Not in war.
Not in death.
Not now.
He focused.
He moved.
The others thrashed wildly, blind and desperate.
They collided, tangled, and struggled in a chaotic frenzy.
Frank did not.
He cut through the chaos with ruthless, surgical precision — an arrow fired from the hand of a god.
He dodged, weaved, and conserved strength where others wasted it.
Every twitch, every pulse of motion was calculated to perfection.
The tide pressed against him, heavy and endless.
The surge from Uther's final roar was monstrous — a flood so vast it could have drowned cities.
But Frank pressed forward anyway.
One beat at a time.
One inch at a time.
Not faster.
Not stronger.
Smarter.
Relentless.
The egg loomed ahead — a burning beacon in the darkness, a shining gate to life.
The others fell away, exhausted, broken, consumed by the current.
Frank alone pushed onward.
Closer.
Closer.
The distance shrank.
The pulse of life around him grew deafening, a hurricane of heat and will.
And then —
contact.
A flash of searing light.
A silent explosion of purpose.
Connection.
Victory.
High above, in the royal chambers of Camelot, Uther collapsed onto Wilda with a final, satisfied groan, his body trembling from the force of his release.
Wilda laughed softly, brushing his sweat-slicked hair back from his brow.
"You truly would tear the world apart for a son," she whispered.
Uther's chest rumbled with dark amusement.
"Not tear it apart," he said. "Forge it anew."
He pressed a rough kiss against her lips — a promise of the kingdom their bloodline would one day rule.
And within her, unseen, unnoticed,
Arthur Pendragon — the soul reborn from fire and steel —
began to grow.
Wilda slept, her breathing deep and even, the exhaustion of passion and victory finally claiming her. Her body, sculpted by war and motherhood alike, lay tangled with Uther's heavier, broader frame in the wreckage of their once-proud royal bed. The room around them was shattered — oak beams splintered, the heavy tapestries torn from the walls, the ancient stone floors littered with broken candle stands and discarded furs.
Above them, the storm howled on, battering the high towers of Camelot like a living thing denied its prey.
And yet, within that ruined chamber, a new storm was taking shape.
Beneath Wilda's heart, a single cell pulsed with life — microscopic, yet containing all the fury and destiny of an empire yet to come. It clung fiercely, merging with the ancient blood of Pendragon, drawing strength from Uther's raw will and Wilda's indomitable spirit.
Within that tiny spark, the soul of Frank Armstrong stirred.
Consciousness was a flickering thing, a dim awareness pressed under oceans of heat and weight. He had no hands, no voice, no body, only the stubborn, caged instinct that had once made him drag wounded comrades from burning Humvees under machine gun fire.
He clung to that instinct now.
Clung to the single thread of self that had followed him through death, fire, and darkness into this strange, furious rebirth.
At first, there was only drifting.
The sensation of being buffeted and tumbled, like a leaf caught in the endless churn of a black ocean.
He was adrift in something vast, something ancient, a cycle greater than any battlefield he had ever crossed.
And for a moment, he considered surrender.
It would be easy. So easy to let go, to fade into the tide and let this alien world take him.
But Frank had never been one to die easy.
No.
Not now.
Not here.
Not after everything.
A slow, searing awareness gathered within him — not in thought, but in drive. A will forged over decades of survival, battle, and pain. He remembered dimly: Bruce's broken body in his arms, the final explosion, the betrayal they had never seen coming.
He remembered the promise.
"Partners. In this life and the next."
Frank flexed — or what passed for flexing in this formless state — and pushed.
The pressure intensified immediately, the walls of this embryonic world resisting his every motion, but he ground forward anyway.
Clenching something like muscles.
Hardening something like resolve.
If this was life, it would have to earn him.
If he was to rise again, it would be by no gift of the gods but by his own brutal hand.
Within the queen's womb, the fertilized egg pulsed with a golden light, impossibly bright for so fragile a thing.
It throbbed once or twice and then began to split, dividing with slow, grinding inevitability.
Frank felt the change, not with his mind, but with the deep, animal knowing that had saved him so many times before.
Something was beginning.
Something monstrous.
Something glorious.
He let instinct take over, adjusting, adapting, and flexing the strange, half-formed energy that suffused his being.
Where other embryonic souls would simply drift and develop blindly, he fought to direct the process, guiding the earliest shaping of his flesh with something like strategy.
He could not dictate everything.
But he could influence.
Strength where it mattered.
The speed where it counted.
Stamina to outlast every enemy, every hardship.
He could already feel the burgeoning potential locked inside this new vessel.
The golden core — heavy, noble, inexorable.
The red core — wild, savage, burning with limitless hunger for life and victory.
He clenched both figurative fists.
This world — Terra — would not break him.
He would break it.
Piece by piece.
Law by law.
Empire by Empire.
Until he stood at the pinnacle, not as a servant or a pawn, but as a king crowned in the blood and sweat of a reborn world.
Above, Uther stirred in his exhausted sleep, one massive arm tightening instinctively around Wilda's waist.The storm outside began to ebb, the wind falling away into a low, victorious murmur.
And deep within Wilda's womb, Arthur Pendragon — once Frank Armstrong — began his long, inexorable climb toward greatness.
The first heartbeat came.
Weak.
Unsteady.
But it came.
And the world shifted, ever so slightly, in response.
Time passed — a measure not of days, not of weeks, but of heartbeat after heartbeat, slow and relentless.
Within the warm darkness of Wilda's womb, Frank's embryonic form grew, layer by painstaking layer, flesh and bone knitting together with supernatural precision.Where others drifted in unconscious formation, Arthur shaped himself with quiet, brutal focus.
Veins thickened.Bones hardened early.Tissues aligned not for ease of birth, but for endurance, for power.
The golden core fed him stability — building a body sturdy enough to bear the weight of crowns and wars alike.The red core whispered of fire, of battles yet unfought, of blood yet spilled in his name.
Even in the womb, Arthur clenched phantom fists.
Outside, the royal court of Albion thrived.
Queen Wilda's belly swelled with the coming of the heir, her face radiant with strength rather than softness.Servants bustled through the halls of Camelot, whispering of the child to come.Knights redoubled their drills in the icy courtyards, pounding armor and sharpening steel until sparks lit the winter air.Smiths forged cradles of silver and swords for tiny hands not yet born.Priests blessed the halls anew, their prayers woven with fear and trembling hope.
A prince was coming.
And not just any prince.The prophecy whispered by ancient seers spoke of a star reborn in mortal flesh — a king who would bind the shattered tribes of Terra under a single banner, or break the world trying.
Only the king and queen knew how fiercely they had worked to shape this future.How many years they had spent carving a kingdom from chaos with bloody hands.How many enemies they had buried under stone and fire.
Their child would not inherit peace.
He would inherit a throne built on bone and ash — and would be expected to rise higher than either of them ever could.
Uther stood in the high tower often, arms crossed over his broad chest, gazing down at the world beyond the snowy battlements.His steel-grey eyes never softened.Not even when he spoke of his unborn son.
"He will know strength before kindness," he rumbled one night to Wilda, their bed a fortress of tangled furs and cracked wood."He will fight before he speaks. Lead before he follows. No softness. No weakness."
Wilda, bare beneath the heavy pelts, only smiled faintly and reached for him, her hands firm against his scarred jaw.
"Then we shall forge him together," she said, her voice low and sure."And if the gods are just — they will fear what we have made."
Below them, in the depths of the castle's cold stone, Arthur's tiny body flexed.
A hand.A foot.A spine coiling with embryonic might.
He listened without understanding, but the words seeped into his forming mind like molten iron into a mold.
Strength.Fight.Lead.
Commands.
Expectations.
Oaths, spoken without him, but binding nonetheless.
In the fluid darkness, he grinned — the ghost of a grin, still half-dream and half-flesh.
Let them forge me.
Let them temper me.
I will break the anvil before I break.
The storm came on the longest night of the year.
Snow slashed sideways across the towers of Camelot, whipped by winds that howled like wolves at the doors. The mountains groaned under the weight of ice and thunder. Fires guttered in the hearths. Tapestries snapped from their iron rings. The heavens themselves seemed to rage at what was about to be born.
Deep in the heart of the castle, in the high chamber of the royal wing, Wilda screamed.
Not the high, trembling scream of fear.Not the weak sobbing of a noble lady.But the battle-cry of a warrior queen.
She gripped the stone frame of the birthing bed so tightly that cracks spiderwebbed through the ancient granite.Her muscles strained and flexed beneath the thin layer of sweat slicking her powerful body.Her golden hair, loose from its braids, clung to her shoulders in damp, wild strands.
Uther stood near the doorway, arms folded, steel-eyed and grim.
He would not pace.
He would not kneel.
He would not pray.
He watched his queen fight for their future, and he waited.
For warriors, birth was not a miracle.
It was a battle.
And Wilda fought like a goddess enraged.
The midwives worked feverishly around her, whispering prayers to the Flamefather and to any older gods who might still hear mortal pleas.
The priests burned incense in thick, choking clouds.The air grew heavy with smoke, sweat, and blood.
Wilda roared again, her voice breaking through the layered chanting, snapping the courage of lesser men like dry twigs.
The child was coming.
Too fast.
Too strong.
The old midwife gasped, catching sight of something that made her blood run cold:
The babe fought against the womb itself — kicking, twisting, forcing his way forward with furious strength.
A prince who would not wait to be delivered.
A king who would not beg to be born.
He would take life the same way he would take a kingdom.
By force.
Another contraction, savage and final.
Wilda bared her teeth like a wolf.She snarled one final command through gritted teeth.
"Come forth, my son."
And he did.
In a rush of blood and steam, Arthur Pendragon entered the world.
The midwives stumbled backward, some crossing themselves, some simply staring in awe.
He did not cry immediately.He did not flail helplessly.
Arthur landed on the bloodied cloth and, instinct driving him as it had in the womb, he pushed up with trembling arms.
Tiny fingers dug into the cloth.
Tiny feet braced against the broken sheets.
And before the gasping witnesses could comprehend what they were seeing, Arthur lifted himself — a bare, blood-slick infant — into a perfect handstand.
The room froze.
The fire in the hearth roared higher, as if in salute.
The storm outside reached a new fever pitch, thunder crashing against the castle like the blows of warhammers.
Even Uther, stone-faced and iron-hearted, let his arms fall to his sides in shock.
Wilda, exhausted but radiant, laughed — a deep, throaty laugh full of triumph and fierce pride.
"He is ours," she whispered."And he is perfect."
Arthur held the handstand longer than any newborn had a right to.Long enough for all present to feel the weight of prophecy settle onto their shoulders.
Then, slowly, with the deliberate grace of a practiced warrior, he lowered himself back down, rolling to one side.
He opened his eyes — pale gray-blue, cold and sharp even now — and stared into the storm howling beyond the high windows.
His tiny chest rose and fell.
Then, only then, did he give voice to his first true cry.
Not a whimper.
Not a wail.
A roar.
A roar that echoed through the stones of Camelot.A roar that sent shivers down the spines of soldiers hardened by a lifetime of war.
The roar of a king.
The roar of a conqueror.
The roar of a soul who had seen death and refused it.
And far away, hidden in the cold folds of time and fate, the world shuddered.
For the first time since the fall of old empires, hope had been reborn.
And with it — destiny.
The castle of Camelot did not sleep after the birth.
Bells rang from the high towers, cutting through the snow-laden air like silver knives.Fires burned higher on the ramparts, a signal to the farthest villages and forts:The heir is born.The flame endures.
Knights pounded their fists against iron shields, chanting in the old tongue.
Priests draped the cathedral gates in crimson banners and scattered rose petals across the stone floors.
Commoners lit candles in their homes, huddled close against the roaring storm, whispering prayers that their children would live to see the golden age the prophecy now promised.
And above it all, safe within the warm walls of the high tower, Arthur Pendragon slept.
But not peacefully.
From the moment of his first breath, Arthur was different.
Even in sleep, his tiny muscles tensed and flexed, his fingers curled into fists, his feet kicked in precise little jolts against the thick woolen blankets.
Where other infants whimpered and flailed aimlessly, Arthur moved with purpose — even if his body, still forming, could not yet match the will driving it.
He listened.
Not with ears alone, but with the raw, growing awareness of a soul born for conquest.
He heard the pounding of soldiers' boots on frozen stone.He heard the clash of training swords.He heard the low rumble of war councils, the sharp bark of Uther's commands echoing through the castle halls.He heard the quiet murmurs of Wilda's voice — proud and sharp even in rest.
The world around him was a world of strength.Of battle.Of iron law and unyielding will.
And Arthur, absorbing it all like a forge taking breath, began to shape himself accordingly.
In the first weeks of life, while other infants struggled to lift their heads, Arthur was already moving.
Not wildly.
Not wastefully.
Training.
Pushing against the weight of his own body.Rolling to strengthen his core.Flexing tiny fists in slow, determined pulses.Stretching his limbs deliberately, methodically — testing his strength against the softness of his crib, against the gentle resistance of silk and fur.
Every day, he grew stronger.
Every day, he learned more.
When his wet-nurses tried to swaddle him too tightly, he kicked free.
When the maids tried to rock him into docile sleep, he fought the confinement, preferring instead to lay awake and listen to the fortress breathe.
And sometimes, when no one was watching, he would push himself up with trembling arms, balancing briefly before falling back, only to try again.
And again.
And again.
Failure was irrelevant.
Only improvement mattered.
The priests called him blessed.
The midwives called him terrifying.
The soldiers, hardened veterans all, whispered that this was no mere child — this was a king born into a body still too small to contain the fire burning within.
Uther, when he visited the nursery at night, would sometimes stand for long minutes, arms folded, watching his son's silent, relentless struggle to master himself.
He said nothing.
He needed say nothing.
Wilda, sharper-eyed, would smile faintly at the sight.
"Already forging his chains into weapons," she whispered once to herself.
"Good."
Arthur did not know these things yet.Not fully.
He did not know that the world already trembled in anticipation of his first words, his first steps, his first command.
He knew only that life was a battlefield.
And even in a cradle, he would not retreat from it.
Not for a second.
Not for anyone.
The weeks after Arthur's birth turned into months.Winter melted into the gray, muddy spring.The castle walls, once silent but for the howling of storms, filled again with the noises of life — the clash of iron on iron, the drumbeat of boots on frozen stone, the low rumble of soldiers training harder, faster, longer.
But something was different now.
Camelot's heartbeat had changed.
It was not declared in banners or carved into marble.
It was whispered first.
From soldier to squire.From maid to merchant.From priest to page.
The prince is different.The prince is stronger.The prince watches.
At first, it was subtle.
Men grumbled less during the cold morning drills.Squires who once lounged half-heartedly during sword lessons now strained to meet the standards their instructors barked.Stable boys ran harder when fetching horses, feeling invisible eyes on their backs.
Some swore they felt it — a presence, an unseen pressure in the air whenever they passed near the royal nursery.
As if the walls themselves demanded they be better.
As if the stones of Camelot no longer tolerated weakness.
The effect spread quickly.
The guards on the ramparts sharpened their patrols.The blacksmiths hammered harder, crafting blades with extra precision.The farmers outside the walls whispered that their plows bit deeper into the thawed earth, that their oxen moved with more vigor.
All because somewhere within the fortress, a child slept and grew —and without saying a word, demanded greatness from the world around him.
King Uther noticed first.
He stood often now at the windows of the great hall, staring out over the training yards with a strange, fierce pride.
He saw the way his knights gritted their teeth and pressed harder into each strike.The way his soldiers no longer needed to be reminded to march with discipline.The way even his lords sat straighter at council meetings, as if afraid to be found wanting.
Wilda noticed it too.
She smiled behind her hand as she watched from the high balconies, her silver eyes sharp with satisfaction.
Her son was already forging an empire — not with words, not with laws, but with presence alone.
And he was not yet even walking unaided.
In the royal nursery, Arthur pushed himself up from his cradle yet again, tiny arms trembling with exertion.He strained, muscles screaming under the demand.
When he fell — and he often fell — he pushed up again without hesitation.
Servants watched with wide, uncertain eyes.
Some claimed it was unnatural.
Some claimed it was divine.
None dared interfere.
Arthur trained himself in silence, in stubbornness, in the refusal to accept weakness even in infancy.
The gathering storm inside him mirrored the gathering change outside Camelot's walls.
Soon, the lords of neighboring territories would notice.
Soon, the enemies beyond the mountains would whisper.
Soon, Albion itself would feel the first true pulse of the force awakening within the heart of its young prince.
And none of them would be ready.
The day dawned gray and cold.
Snow dusted the fields beyond Camelot's walls.The banners above the castle's towers hung limp in the frozen air, their crimson dragons dulled to blood-brown against the low sky.
It should have been an ordinary day.
It would be anything but.
The knights assembled in the training courtyard, boots crunching against frozen mud, swords hanging at their belts, shields slung over thick shoulders.
It was to be a day of exhibition — a simple display of skill for the court, nothing more.A tournament of arms to entertain the nobles, impress visiting dignitaries, and bolster the spirit of the soldiers for the hard winters ahead.
The lords and ladies gathered along the stone balconies, cloaks wrapped tight, murmuring into gloved hands as they sipped steaming cups of spiced wine.
Children crowded the lower walls, shouting and pointing excitedly as the armored giants below flexed and swaggered.
In the center of it all, standing small but straight, was Arthur Pendragon.
Not even four years old yet.
Clad not in armor, but in a thick wool tunic and leather boots.
No sword at his belt.
No shield in his hands.
Only the unbreakable certainty burning behind his cold gray eyes.
At first, the crowd smiled indulgently.
The "miracle prince" had become something of a favorite toy among the nobles — a symbol of hope, of destiny.A golden-haired boy destined for great things, but harmless for now.
A lord's son offered Arthur a practice sword, laughing as he knelt to match Arthur's tiny height.
The weapon was too large by half.
The handle thick.The blade dull but heavy.
A weapon made for squires, not babes.
Arthur accepted it without a word.
No hesitation.
No complaint.
He gripped the hilt in both small hands, feeling the weight drag at his young arms.
He shifted his feet, grounding himself.He adjusted his grip, his shoulders, his stance.
And he waited.
Silent.
Patient.
Across the yard, Sir Roderic of Marklain stepped forward — a veteran knight of twenty battles, broad and proud, his chainmail glittering under the pale sun.
A harmless match, they said.
A bit of fun.
Show the court the strength of the boy.
Nothing serious.
Nothing dangerous.
Sir Roderic grinned as he drew his practice sword, twirling it with lazy grace.
"Come, little lion," he called, voice warm with false good humor."Show us your teeth."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Uther watched from his high seat with a face of stone.
Wilda leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp, unreadable.
The training master raised his hand.
A breathless silence fell.
He dropped it.
The signal to begin.
Sir Roderic moved first, striding forward with the casual arrogance of a man who had never been challenged by a child.
He raised his blade for a wide, sweeping strike — meant to tap, to humiliate, not to hurt.
Arthur did not flinch.
He stepped into the swing, too fast for the knight to adjust.
A sharp, savage pivot of his small body carried him under the arc of the blade.
He drove his practice sword straight into the side of Roderic's exposed knee.
There was a sickening crack.
Roderic's leg buckled with a roar of pain.
He stumbled, off-balance.
Arthur flowed with him, dancing to the knight's blind stagger.
A second strike hammered into the knight's elbow.A third into the shoulder joint.
The great man dropped his sword, bellowing.
Before he could recover, Arthur struck again — a swift, brutal blow across the back of Roderic's thigh.
The knight collapsed forward onto one knee.
Arthur stepped in, reversed his grip, and drove the blunt wooden tip of the practice sword into the dirt — a breath from Roderic's throat.
The courtyard froze.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Arthur released the sword.
It stood upright, vibrating slightly in the frozen earth.
He turned away without a word, walking calmly back toward the center of the yard.
Behind him, Roderic knelt, panting, humiliated, broken not by a sword's edge, but by something far more dangerous:
Will.
On the balconies, nobles stared, mouths open, wine forgotten.
Among the knights, a low murmur rose — fear, awe, something close to religious reverence.
King Uther sat back slowly, his hands clasped together, the barest flicker of a smile touching the corner of his scarred mouth.
Wilda laughed once, sharp and delighted, a sound like a falcon's cry.
And high above, beyond the storm-wreathed towers, the ravens wheeled and called — a dark chorus to witness the first sword broken by Arthur Pendragon.
It would not be the last.
Not by far.
While the nobles of Camelot roared their approval, while knights pounded their fists against iron shields and the fires of Albion's future burned higher and hotter...
…far away, beyond the mountains and the rivers, in the quieter, colder lands of House Lionheart, another birth took place.
No trumpets sounded here.No banners were unfurled.No priests raised their hands in praise.
Only a tired cry from a weathered midwife, the rustle of old blankets, and the sharp, thin wail of a newborn girl splitting the stillness of a forgotten stone hall.
The baby lay small and fragile in the midwife's arms, her skin pink and soft, her body trembling from the effort of living.
Red hair — the deep, wild red of autumn fire — crowned her small head in messy, damp curls.
Her eyes, when they blinked open, were bright — impossibly bright — wide and curious, the pale blue of a winter sky caught before the first storm.
She squirmed weakly, kicking her tiny feet against the coarse wool of the blanket, but there was strength there.A stubbornness that no one could see yet, but that burned fiercely in the tiny hammer of her heartbeat.
The lord of the house — Leo Lionheart — barely glanced at the child.
He grunted once, a low sound of disappointment, and turned back toward the hearth without a word.
Another daughter.
Another political tool.
Nothing more.
The midwives exchanged uneasy looks but said nothing.They had seen it before.They would see it again.
The girl was placed gently into a crude crib lined with old furs, forgotten before her first breath had fully cooled in the air.
The hall grew silent once more, save for the crackle of the fire and the soft, hiccupping breaths of the newborn.
No one sang.No one cheered.No one wept for joy.
Only the storm outside whispered against the cracked stone windows, the same storm that had raged the night Arthur was born.
But if anyone had looked closer, if any soul in that quiet, empty hall had dared to see beyond the flesh...
They would have seen it.
The faint shimmer of light around the tiny girl.The almost invisible threads of warmth and strength weaving into her bones.The slow, steady pulse of something ancient and unbreakable.
Bruce Redford was there.
Changed.Softened.But alive.
The spirit of the shield reborn into a vessel of kindness, patience, and hidden strength.
He remembered the oath.He remembered the bond.
And even though he could not walk, could not speak, could not fight yet, he clung to the spark inside him with all the stubbornness that had once carried him through fire and death.
He was here.
Waiting.
Growing.
Across the land, Arthur's name was already being sung in feast halls and battlefield camps alike.
But Lili — quiet, small, overlooked — would be no less important.
She would be the second light.
The unseen star.
The root beneath the mountain.
And one day, when the fires of ambition burned too hot, when the world trembled under the weight of crowns and empires, it would be her small, steady hands that would hold it all together.
For now, she slept.
Dreaming faint dreams of gardens, and laughter, and hands she had not yet touched but would never forget.
The storm raged on, unnoticed.
And destiny smiled.
Two souls had been set upon the board.
Two flames.
Two hearts.
And the game had only just begun.