In a secluded chamber deep within the castle, far from the corridors still being cleared of debris and blood, more than three hundred Morgain guards maintained a silent perimeter. Every blade and piece of equipment rested inside inventories now that the immediate threat had passed.
The war had ended.
The Aftermath had begun.
Among them, one presence stood above the rest without needing to assert it.
Arthur.
Broad-shouldered, short blond hair graying at the sides, sharp brown eyes that had seen more campaigns than most of the younger soldiers combined. His armor was gone, dismissed like everyone else's, yet nothing about him suggested ease. He stood relaxed in posture, alert in awareness. Trafalgar's direct commander.
