Aroche left.
He had taken his elite unit—twenty-five Force Art Masters, each boasting four stars her, and himself, a formidable six-star Force Art Master. He led them to rally his full ducal army and personally front the rebellion, insisting on taking the very front lio face t head-on.
Burn had sent reinforts the same day to the battlefield, helmed by Gahad himself. But his own priority roteg the vulnerable: vilgers who y half a day’s march away from the warzone, a ripe target for looters and opportunists.
He eheir evacuation, leaving no one behind, before finally turning his attention to the battle itself. A day ter, he made for the front line, only to enter Gahad riding toward him like a storm, terror painted across his face.
“What happened? Why are you here?”
Gahad dismounted in a frenzy. The stro knight of Soulnaught—unfling and unbreakable—sank to his khen threw himself ft to the ground, his body trembling with grief.
“Your Majesty!” he choked out, his voice crag as tears streamed down his face. He smmed his forehead into the dirt, his cries muffled against the ground. “Your Majesty!”
The soldiers behind Burn froze, their expressions twisted in shared dread. The sight of Gahad—indomitable, revered—reduced to this was a blow none of them could process.
Burn leaped from his steed and sprioward him, grabbing Gahad by the shoulders and shaking him. “What are you doing?! What happened?!”
“Your Majesty…” Gahad sobbed, words unraveling into raw anguish.
Landevale, who had followed close behind Burn, arrived just in time to see the se unfold. Gahad’s gaze caught hers, and for a moment, he froze.
And in that silence, Burn knew something had happeo his best friend.
“Tell me!” Burn demanded, his voice razor-sharp, his bloodshot eyes b into Gahad as he grabbed the man’s tear-streaked face with both hands.
“Your Majesty…” Gahad’s voice cracked, his breath catg as if the words themselves might kill him. “They said when Duke Leodegrance arrived at the battlefield, the prince requested to meet him personally. Cimed he had something important to say… promised he’d stop the war if the Duke would just listen.”
Burn’s grip tightened, his knuckles whitening. “And?”
“His Grace agreed,” Gahad tinued, his voice trembling. “He went into the tent with his best men… but when they emerged…” A pause. A stifled sob. “…some of his men were already dead. Others betrayed him. And His Grace’s head… was mounted on a spear tip.”
Aroche.
Burn’s chest heaved as the realization struck. Leodegrahe house that had raised t, nurtured him.
Even among Aroche’s most loyal soldiers, there were those with ties to t’s men—hidden sympathizers who had been waiting for an opportunity like this. Traitors. They had see’s rebellion as their ce to grab power, spiring to topple Burn and the rightful head of the Leodegrance family, Aroche.
Aroche was caught off guard.
“No!”
Landevale’s scream tore through the air, splintering the brittle silence Gahad’s words had left behind. “Brother! No—this ’t be true! It ’t be!”
Her hand flew to her swrief and rage igniting into something violent. She uhed the bde, trembling as she turoward her steed, ready to charge into a battlefield soaked irayal.
Burn stood swiftly, his face twisted with fury and sorrow. He caught her mid-step, ing his powerful arms arouhrashing form, log her in pce. His voice was low but rough with suppressed rage as he dragged her back, wreng the sword from her trembling hand.
“Enough,” he muttered, though his face betrayed the storm inside him.
“Five me…” Gahad whispered, sinking back to the ground, his head bowed low enough to graze the dirt. “If only… if only I had been faster. If only… I’d arrived just a bit sooner…” His tears fell freely, carving paths in the dust and blood on his face.
Percival moved to haul Gahad off the ground, his own grief barely tained. Bedivere joined Burn in trying to calm Landevale, her wails cutting through the oppressive air like a bde, aually, his firm hands steadying Landevale as she crumpled into quiet, choked sobs.
The soldiers stood frozen iheir armored boots rooted to the ground. No one spoke, but the trembling in their shoulders betrayed their fury. Wrath and sorrow radiated through the ranks, spilling over iears they could no longer hold back.
“Sir, Morien and Sagramore are still otlefield. We must make for the Wall of Logres,” Percival urged, his voice steady but his eyes heavy with unspoken dread.
“No,” Burn said coldly, peeling himself away from Landevale with a deliberate slowhat made the air feel heavier. “Bring her back. And all of you—return to Camelot.”
Percival frowhe lines on his face deepening. “Sir—”
Burn’s gaze so him, sharp as a bde. “You’re in charge, Percival. Return. To. Camelot.”
Bedivere, ever the stubborn one, dropped to his knees with a thud that echoed. His powerful voice broke through the rising tension. “Your Majesty! Take us with you!”
The front rows of 400,000 men—seasoned warriors, unshakable knights—saw the mighty Bedivere bowing in despair and, one by ohey dropped to their knees like a wave. The men behind followed suit, arming as they k.
“YOUR MAJESTY, BRING US WITH YOU!”
And then the t began. It started as a murmur, but it grew, resonating across the hills and valleys.
“AVENGE! AVENGE! AVENGE!”
The ground trembled beh their roars, the air thick with their rage. Word of what had happened spread like wildfire, and the cries grew louder, angrier, until the earth seemed to quake with their fury.
“SHUT!”
Burn’s voice cut through the uproar like a bde through silk, amplified by mana and crashing down like a thunderbolt. The roar of the crowd halted as if snuffed out by a sudden storm.
“If any of you follow me,” his voice carried, chilling and absolute, “I’ll kill you myself.” His words rang clear and sharp, rattling their bones and reverberating in their ears. “None. None shall I lose again.”
He turned, mounting his steed with a calm that belied the fire in his eyes.
“Return to Camelot.”
With a siir of the reins, Burn rode off, leaving 400,000 men behind, their collective rage and grief eg in the valleys of Logres, unanswered.
A day and a half after arriving back at Camelot, the rest of the army led by Sagramore and Morien finally arrived. Among them were also some of the survivors from Aroche’s army, their ranks battered.
The injured and maimed were transported with painstaking care, and the bodies of the fallen were carried with solemn reverence.
Among the dead were Gawain’s brothers, successfully retrieved. Gareth and Gaheris—barely reizable, their forms twisted and ravaged—but their mana traces left no doubt. The air grew heavier as their remains were id out, grief hanging over the castle like a storm cloud.
Gawain, however, remained unscious, a pale shadow of the warrior he once was. The physis whispered amongst themselves, their faces grim. None dared to say aloud what everyone feared: that Gawain might never wake as the man they remembered.
When Sagramore and Morien dismouhey wasted no time delivering their report. “His Majesty…” Morien began, his voice faltering for a moment, “…he was beyond furious when he arrived at the battlefield.”
Sagramore stepped in, his face a mixture of frustration and helplessness. “He ordered us back almost immediately. Told us to gather the injured and fallen and leave. There was no room for debate.”
Both men exged gheir unease palpable. “He wasn’t just angry,” Sagramore added, voice l. “It was like… like he was holding baething worse.”
But the worst of it wasn’t ione of their voices or the weight of their words. It was in what they couldn’t say ht.
Aroche’s body was still missing.
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