"You summoned me, Arthur."
The white hair woman's voice was ice.
Pure, crystalline, utterly devoid of warmth.
She stood before her brother with her arms crossed beneath her generous chest, her blue eyes boring into him with the particular contempt that only a sister could muster
"I don't know whether you've finally grown a pair of balls, or if you're just as stupid as you've always been."
"Does it have to be so dramatic, Morgan?" Arthur rolled his eyes, already bored with the theatrics he hadn't asked for.
"Besides, I didn't summon you. It was random, and you just happened to be the one picked. Maybe you missed me so badly that you wanted to be summoned, and the universe simply did you a favor."
"Who missed you, stupid?!" Morgan's face flushed bright red with embarrassment.
Her staff cracked against his head with a satisfying thwack.
Not hard enough to actually injure—she was angry, not murderous—but with enough force to make her point abundantly clear.
Arthur rubbed the sore spot on his head, his grin utterly unrepentant.
"Feel better?"
"Humph." Morgan tossed her silvery white hair over her shoulder, regaining her composure with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent centuries perfecting the art of dignified fury.
"Enough of your stupid jokes, Arthur. I'll forgive your audacity this once—don't test my generosity."
Her expression hardened into something cold and professional.
"Tell me who the enemy is. We'll end this Holy Grail War quickly, and then I'll be on my way. I have no desire to remain in your presence longer than absolutely necessary."
Arthur's grin softened into something warmer.
Something almost... sad.
"I don't think you'll be leaving, Morgan."
Her blue eyes flashed. "Be serious, Arthur."
"I am serious." His voice was quiet now. Steady. Utterly devoid of his earlier playfulness. "Look around you."
Morgan frowned.
She turned her head, her gaze sweeping across the unfamiliar landscape—the training yard, the modest buildings, the strange mixture of medieval architecture and modern sensibilities.
And then her eyes landed on the people.
A young woman with soft blonde hair and gentle eyes—Olivia, though Morgan didn't know her name yet—squared off against another girl with aristocratic features and a noble's bearing. Stephanie.
They clashed with wooden training swords, the crack of impact echoing across the yard.
Stephanie lunged.
Olivia sidestepped.
A quick riposte.
A flick of the wrist.
Stephanie's sword went flying.
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You... you beat me?!"
"Uhm..." Olivia scratched her cheek, looking genuinely apologetic. "Sorry?"
Stephanie stared at her for a long moment.
Then, slowly, a grudging respect flickered in her gaze. "If you're the sister of that guy... I suppose it makes sense."
She retrieved her fallen sword, reset her stance, and gritted her teeth.
"Again. Keep going."
Olivia smiled warmly and raised her own blade.
The clash resumed.
Nearby, an elf woman—Yumeria—sat cross-legged on the grass, her eyes closed in concentration as magical energy swirled around her fingertips.
Standing over her with an expression of profound, theatrical boredom was a white-haired man in flowing robes.
Merlin.
He was supposed to be training her.
Instead, he was half-asleep, his instructions coming in lazy, half-hearted mumbles, his eyes drifting toward anything that might provide more entertainment than teaching basic magical theory to an elf.
Morgan's frown deepened.
"What is this place?" She turned back to Arthur, her voice carrying genuine confusion now. "Is this the medieval world? The modern world? Some strange hybrid of both?"
She gestured at the training yard, at the wooden swords and the floating holographic interfaces that occasionally flickered at the edges of her perception. "They fight with sticks like peasants, but the air buzzes with technology I don't recognize. They wear medieval tunics but speak like they've stepped out of a... a..."
She struggled for the word.
"A renaissance faire with smartphones," Arthur supplied helpfully.
"Yes! That!" Morgan pointed at him accusingly. "This makes no sense whatsoever."
Arthur chuckled—a warm, genuine sound that seemed to surprise her.
"Nothing about this world makes sense, Morgan. That's the first thing you need to understand." His emerald eyes swept across the training yard, taking in his growing party—Olivia and Stephanie locked in their duel, Yumeria struggling to learn from a terminally bored Merlin.
"The rules here are different. The logic is different. The very fabric of reality operates on principles that would make the Throne of Heroes seem... quaint."
Morgan absorbed this. Her blue eyes widened slightly.
"A new world." She breathed the words like a revelation. "No wonder I felt strange the moment I arrived. The Ether here is thicker than Earth's—far denser, more potent—but still thinner than the Throne of Heroes. Than our proper universe."
She turned her glare back upon him. "And what now? Do you expect me to help you? What makes you think I would ever agree to such a thing?"
"Perhaps because I'm handsome?" Arthur offered with a grin.
Morgan nearly laughed.
She caught herself just in time, forcing her expression back into something colder—but the attempt failed miserably.
Her lips twitched.
"You—" She found herself speechless, utterly without a retort.
She had never—never—seen her brother like this.
The Arthur she remembered was noble.
Solemn.
Carrying the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, his eyes always fixed on some distant horizon of duty and destiny.
He had been a king before he was a brother.
A symbol before he was a man.
This Arthur?
This Arthur made stupid jokes.
He grinned like he meant it.
He looked at her not as the Witch of Britannia, not as the sister who had schemed against his throne, but simply as... Morgan.
His sister.
His family.
Then Arthur's expression shifted.
The humor faded, replaced by something heavier.
He sighed.
"Alright, Morgan. Let's talk somewhere quiet. Coffee, perhaps?"
Morgan looked down at her hands—her little brother's hands were holding them now, warm and steady.
She raised her eyes to meet his, her gaze intense and searching.
"You don't hate me? After everything?"
"I know who was truly responsible for our downfall, Morgan. I truly do." Arthur's voice carried a quiet disdain. "Your schemes didn't kill me. Lancelot's rebellion didn't kill me. Mordred's betrayal didn't kill me. Even when everyone I loved fell before me, I did not fall."
His voice hardened.
Not with anger, but with the cold, absolute certainty of a dragon speaking truth.
"It takes more than that to kill a dragon, Morgan. Far more."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
Morgan was silent.
Her blue eyes glistened with something she refused to name.
"Alaya."
The word fell from Arthur's lips like a curse.
"The Counter Force. The Will of Humanity. It manipulated all of us. Every choice we thought we made. Every betrayal we thought was born from our own flaws. Alaya pulled the strings, and we danced like puppets."
He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently take hers. His fingers wrapped around her palm with a tenderness that seemed almost foreign, almost impossible, given everything that had happened between them.
"You were never my enemy, Morgan. Never," Arthur said, his voice soft but firm, carrying the weight of years of unspoken pain and forgiveness. "You and I are just victims of someone else's schemes and manipulations. Rather than asking me whether I hate you or not, ask yourself a question. Do you still hate me? You always think of me as a thief who stole your empire, your birthright, and everything that made you the rightful heir to the throne."
His emerald eyes never left her icy-blue ones. He held her gaze steadily, refusing to look away, refusing to let her hide from the truth of his words. There was no accusation in his voice, no bitterness or resentment. Only a quiet, earnest hope that she would finally see the truth.
"I don't know..." Morgan bit her lips, refusing to falter from his eyes. She held his gaze just as steadily as he held hers, her jaw set with stubborn pride. "You're kind of nice. You make stupid jokes to make me laugh and greet me like nothing ever happened. You ignored the hatred and bitterness in your own heart just to greet me, the very sister who destroyed everything you stood for. I don't know if I should hate you anymore. Maybe I do. Maybe I don't."
She paused, her voice catching slightly as she continued.
"As your older sister, I was certainly a failure," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "You are younger than me, yet you are so mature, Arthur. So much stronger than I ever was."
Then she smiled. It was a small, fragile thing at first, but it grew as she looked at him. She approached her younger brother, closing the distance between them. Her frosty demeanor, the cold mask she had worn for so long, was gone. It had been replaced by a warmth, a compassion that had never been there in the old Morgan that Arthur remembered from his darkest memories.
She pulled his head into her arms, holding him against her chest. Arthur stiffened at her sudden closeness, his body tense and uncertain. But she didn't let go. She simply held him there, one hand stroking his blonde hair gently, soothingly.
"Uhm... You look younger and cuter like this, Arthur," she murmured, her voice soft and affectionate.
Her smile never left her face as she stared down at him, her icy-blue eyes now warm and full of something that looked almost like love. It was strange. It was unexpected. But it wasn't unwelcome.
"I guess we should go for coffee," she said casually, as if they were just ordinary siblings making ordinary plans.
"Urgh... Yeah..." Arthur didn't know what to say at this moment. His mind was blank, his thoughts scattered. He wasn't even sure why Morgan had suddenly grown so affectionate and aggressive in such a short amount of time. It was like a completely different person was standing in front of him.
But it wasn't an unwelcome change. Not at all.
Morgan grinned, a genuine, almost mischievous smile that lit up her entire face. "Alright. Let's go, brother. This time, let me treat you properly. As family should."
Without waiting for him to say anything in response, she tightened her grip, holding him firmly in her arms. Then, with a flash of light and a rush of displaced air, she teleported them both away from this place instantly, as if they had never been there at all.
The space where they had stood was empty now, silent and still. Whatever had been broken between them, whatever wounds had festered for so long, perhaps they had finally begun to heal.
Perhaps there was hope for them yet.
Note: Yeah, lately, I've been under a lot of pressure and couldn't write this because my emotions were very unstable. But now, I'm doing fine, so I can write this again with peace of mind.