"WHAT?!"
Zola's shriek echoed through the chamber like a shattered glass.
Her face—already pinched and cruel—twisted into something truly ugly as she stared at her eldest son with bulging eyes.
"Our forces were wiped out?! By a mere village boy?! ALL OF THEM?!"
Spittle flew from her lips with every word, spraying across Rutart's face in a fine, disgusting mist.
The blonde-haired boy flinched—just slightly, just enough to notice—but he didn't wipe it away.
He didn't step back. He didn't even raise his hand to shield himself.
He just stood there.
Meek. Silent. Accepting.
His mother's spit dripped down his cheek.
He didn't move.
Rutart understood how this worked.
He'd learned from the moment he could walk that men in his mother's presence didn't complain. Didn't protest. Didn't defend themselves.
They took whatever was thrown at them—insults, commands, bodily fluids—and they said nothing.
Because speaking back meant punishment.
And punishment in Zola's household was not something you survived intact.
Merce, his younger sister, watched the exchange from her seat with an expression of pure disgust.
Not at her mother. Never at her mother.
At the saliva.
"Mother." Her voice was cold, clipped, the voice of a girl who had learned cruelty at her mother's knee and perfected it through years of practice. "I think brother needs to leave. Look at him. He's filthy."
She didn't care that her brother had just been showered in spit. She didn't care that he'd done nothing wrong. She cared that the sight of it was unpleasant.
That was the full extent of her concern.
Zola paused mid-rant.
Glanced at Rutart's dripping face.
Her lip curled.
"Ugh. Merce is right. You're disgusting, Rutart. Go wash yourself immediately. What if the other members saw you like this? You'd shame this entire organization with your pathetic appearance."
Rutart's expression flickered—just for a heartbeat, just enough to see the darkness underneath the mask.
But he crushed it instantly.
Swallowed it.
Buried it somewhere deep where no one would ever find it.
"Yes, Mother. I apologize for my appearance."
He bowed. Low. Submissive. The good boy he'd been trained to be since birth.
No one blamed Zola for the spit. No one even acknowledged she was the one who'd put it there.
The fault was always his. His face was dirty. His presence was inconvenient. His existence was a burden to be managed.
That was how their family worked. That was how the Forest of Ladies worked. The women ruled. The men obeyed. And when reality didn't fit the narrative, you blamed the nearest male and moved on.
Rutart slipped out of the room without another word.
No one watched him go.
Merce turned back to her mother, the matter already dismissed from her mind. "So, Mother. What do we do now? Should we attempt to rescue our captured members?"
Zola snorted.
It was an ugly sound—wet and contemptuous.
"That elf bitch. Erdellia." She spat the name like a curse. "All talk. All posturing. She told us how powerful she was. How skilled. How her cold demeanor masked a warrior's heart. We almost believed her. We almost invested real resources in her little vendetta."
She slammed her palm against the armrest of her chair.
"And in the end, she was defeated by a mere village boy? A child with a sword and delusions of knighthood? What a pathetic, worthless disappointment!"
Her eyes hardened into chips of ice.
"No. We don't rescue them. We don't waste a single coin, a single soldier, a single moment of our time on losers who couldn't accomplish a simple task. Let them rot. Let them serve as an example of what happens when you fail the Forest of Ladies."
Merce's expression flickered with something—disappointment, perhaps.
Or wounded pride. The organization had been humiliated. Their name had been tarnished. The idea of letting that stand without retaliation burned in her chest.
"So we just let them win?" she asked, her voice tight. "We let that boy and his pathetic village believe they can defy us without consequence?"
Zola's lips stretched into a smile.
It was not a pleasant expression. It was the smile of a predator who had been momentarily inconvenienced but had already planned her next move.
"Of course not, sweetie. Don't be foolish."
She leaned forward, her eyes glittering with malice.
"We're going to obliterate them. Erase them. Grind that little village and everyone in it into dust so fine the wind will carry their ashes across the entire kingdom as a warning."
She paused.
Let the anticipation build.
"But not now."
Merce frowned. "Not now?"
"The royalty is our priority. Roland. His pathetic council. The noble houses that have been sniffing around our operations. They're the real threat. That boy—Arthur, or whatever he calls himself—is an annoyance. A pest. One we will exterminate when the time is right."
She stood from her chair, her full height still unimpressive but her presence somehow filling the room.
"Send word to every member. Every cell. Every sympathizer. Arthur's party is to be killed on sight. Any means necessary. Poison. Ambush. Knife in the dark. I don't care how it's done, but if any of our people encounter them, they are not to return until those bastards are dead."
She turned to Merce, her eyes burning.
"Do you understand?"
Merce straightened.
Saluted.
Her expression was eager, hungry, the expression of a daughter who had finally been given permission to hunt.
"Yes, Mother. I'll see to it personally."
"Good girl."
Zola settled back into her chair, reaching for her wine. The matter was settled. Erdellia was forgotten.
The captured members were written off as acceptable losses.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, a plan was already forming—a way to make Arthur Pendragon regret ever crossing swords with the Forest of Ladies.
She didn't know yet that her plans were already accounted for.
She didn't know that Arthur had a witch, a knight, and a dragon's blood running through his veins.
She would learn.
Eventually.
...
"My king! We have arrived in the Principality of Fanoss!"
Merlin's voice carried that particular lilt of barely-contained mischief.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I can see that, Merlin. The big floating island with the Fanoss banners was something of a clue."
"Ah, but you haven't heard the best part!" Merlin leaned in close, his eyes gleaming with the unholy light of a man about to cause problems on purpose. "I've heard there are twin princesses here. Beautiful. Sweet. Noble. Same age as you, my king. How about we pay them a visit?"
His grin widened into something truly wretched.
"I hear they're very... welcoming."
Morgan's staff hit him square across the back of his head with a crack that echoed through the street.
"OW! What in the—"
"Don't teach him nasty things, Merlin." Morgan's voice was ice.
Her blue eyes promised violence far beyond a simple staff strike. "Or do you think my last lesson wasn't harsh enough? I seem to recall you spent three days as a garden gnome. Would you like to try for a full week?"
Merlin gulped. Loudly. Visibly.
The great magus of Camelot—the man who had shaped the fate of Britain—shrank back from the Fairy of the Lake like a scolded child.
"I was merely suggesting—"
"You were corrupting my little brother."
"I was expanding his horizons!"
"You were being a degenerate."
"That's... not entirely inaccurate."
The party burst into laughter.
Arthur clapped his hands together, the sound cutting through the mirth.
"Alright, everyone. Enough teasing Merlin. We have work to do." He turned to face the group, his emerald eyes bright with purpose. "We're going to meet those twin princesses. And we're going to save the world."
Olivia tilted her head, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Save the world? Brother, what do you mean?"
"I mean they're carrying something dangerous, and one of them is going to die if we don't help them," Arthur replied solemnly.
Stephanie and Olivia exchanged confused looks, clearly not understanding what he meant, but Morgan, Merlin, Cleare, and Luxion seemed to realize something from his words.
Luxion let out an amused grin. "Leave it to me, partner. I shall make sure your meeting with them goes beautifully."
"Many thanks, my robotic friend." Arthur grinned in return.
"Urgh… I'm not coming." Stephanie crossed her arms, clearly unenthusiastic about the idea.
Olivia nodded in agreement. "Me too."
Merlin patted Arthur on the shoulder with a teasing smile. "Go for it, my king. We'll be cheering for you from behind."
Morgan rolled her eyes. "Yes, because apparently none of us are allowed to steal your spotlight, Arthur. Go on and do what you think is right."
And so, encouraged by their words, Arthur and Luxion headed straight toward the twin princesses' chambers. They bypassed the guards effortlessly while Morgan and Merlin maintained a cloaking spell around them, concealing their presence as they slipped deeper into the palace unnoticed.