Weeks flew by after Artoria arrived in Mondstadt. Her ethereal presence, beauty and dignified appearance spurned countless rumors among the populace of Mondstadt as she regularly takes a stroll with her new adopted daughters along the streets and plazas of the City of Freedom.
The rumors that she might be a long lost scion of the Gunnhildr or even a lost sibling of Lady Frederica spread like wildfire among the populace, especially with her uncanny resemblance to the members of the main line of the Gunnhildr clan.
The initial few weeks at The Windswept Pleasance were a blur of quiet moments and sudden, overwhelming demands. Barbara woke frequently, her soft cries in the night pulling Artoria from a light, soldier's sleep. Each time, she would rise without complaint, her divine body feeling no fatigue, and would hold the infant, rocking her gently, humming a melody so ancient and pure it seemed to still the very air. The sound would invariably soothe Barbara, and often, Jean, sleeping in the other bed, would settle deeper into her dreams.
Jean was more of a challenge. During the day, she was a quiet, watchful shadow, her hand perpetually finding its way into Artoria's. She would sit at the small table in their room, meticulously sketching with a pack of crayons that Elspeth had provided her, drawing pictures of a knight with a shining spear and a blue hood, standing protectively over two small figures. But at night, the nightmares would come. Whimpers and choked sobs would pull Artoria to her bedside, where she would find the little girl thrashing, reliving the horror on the cliff. Artoria would simply cuddle the poor little girl, her warm embrace would immediately calm Jean, her small body relaxing as she instinctively sought the source of safety.
The Holy Grail proved to be a discreet miracle, one that Artoria was starting to exploit. While Artoria had Mora, the practicalities of motherhood required more than just coin. Elspeth would remark on the remarkable freshness of a variety of fruits laid in a basket that would appear in their room each morning, or the surprising bounty of ripe Windwheel Asters and Calla Lilies Artoria would bring, claiming to have found them on a walk. She provided not just sustenance, but the very best, a quiet application of her abilities to ensure her daughters had everything they could possibly need.
Their strolls through Mondstadt became a ritual. In the early morning, when the city was just waking up, Artoria would wrap Jean and Barbara in warm cloaks and walk the cobbled streets. Barbara, now sitting up in a sling against Artoria's chest, would babble and coo at the fluttering Dandelion seeds, her eyes wide with wonder. Jean, holding her mother's hand, would point out the sights, her voice a soft whisper. "Look, Mama. The windmills. They're turning."
The whispers would start the moment they stepped outside.
"That's her... the one who saved the Gunnhildr girls."
"Have you ever seen hair with that shade of gold before? And her eyes...they shine like Jades mined from the highest peaks!"
"Did you know she carries herself just like a Gunnhildr? I heard she might be a lost sister of Lady Frederica, from her mother's side. Took her husband's name, you see. Pendragon."
"They say she fought off fifty Treasure Hoarders with her bare hands."
The last one was an exaggeration, but Artoria paid it no mind. She was a king, accustomed to the whispers of courts. She focused on the warmth of Jean's hand in hers, the weight of Barbara against her chest. These were her truths now, her sources of joy.
Her presence though, was a slow-acting poison to Randolf Gunnhildr's authority. Every time she walked past the Knights' Headquarters, the young knights on duty would straighten, not with the discipline enforced by Randolf, but with a genuine, awed respect. They saw the ideal he had stripped from them, walking and breathing in the city. They saw her with the children and remembered their own families, their own reasons for joining the order. Morale, which had been stagnating under Randolf's pageantry, was shifting yet, Randolf hadn't been idle. For weeks now, he'd been constantly scheming in order to take custody of the children and ruin Artoria's reputation! Yet his schemes would always inexplicably fail due to reasons unknown to him. It's like fate itself is conspiring against him!
This made him seethe in a silent rage as his frustrations grew with each passing day.
He even went to the Church of Favonius a few days ago to denounce Artoria, and it ended up spectacularly blowing in his face!
____________________
(Flashback a few days prior, Mondstadt Cathedral)
Randolf Gunnhildr, his face a mask of pious indignation, marched into the Favonius Cathedral. He sought out the Head Priest, an old, placid man named Father Theron, who was known more for his piety and love of gardening than for political maneuvering.
"Father," Randolf had begun, his voice filled with false solemnity, "a grave matter has come to my attention. A woman, a foreigner of unknown origin and questionable character, has taken possession of the two Gunnhildr heiresses. She flaunts our laws and defies the authority of this Order and the Archon's will. I believe that she's a charlatan, a threat to the stability of Mondstadt, and I ask the Church to denounce her."
Father Theron had listened patiently, his old eyes half-closed. "And this woman, this... charlatan... What is her name?"
"Artoria Pendragon," Randolf spat the name out as if it were poison.
At that moment, a young nun with brown hair tied in two pigtails had scurried past, carrying a basket of fresh Cecilia flowers. She paused, overhearing the name. "Artoria?" she'd asked, her eyes wide. "Is that the lady who brought little Barbara here the other day?"
Randolf blinked. "What?"
"Yes!" the nun chirped, completely missing the Grandmaster's darkening expression. "The baby was fussing, and she came in to find a quiet corner to feed her. She was so gentle, and her singing... oh, it was like the hymns of old! Sister Victoria said she'd never heard a mother sing with such love. Barbara fell right asleep. She even gave us a substantial donation of mora for the orphan's fund! A very generous one, too!"
Father Theron's eyes had fully opened, a glint of amusement in their depths. He looked from the earnest young nun to the spluttering Grandmaster. "Is that so," he said slowly, stroking his long beard.
"A woman of questionable character who sings hymns, cares for children, and donates generously to the church's needy. A most... dangerous charlatan indeed, Grandmaster."
Randolf's face had turned a shade of red that clashed horribly with his blonde hair. He then sputtered some half-formed excuses and practically fled the cathedral, the sound of the young nun's cheerful humming following him out the door like a mocking melody. From that day on, the Church of Favonius watched Artoria's every move with a quiet, benevolent interest.
(End of Flashback)
____________________
"That DAMN WOMAN!" Randolf cursed loudly while hitting his desk causing the wooden table to crack. He was currently inside his office inside the Knights of Favonius headquarters fuming with pure rage.
His initial plan to paint her as a charlatan and an opportunist had not just failed; it had backfired spectacularly! Instead of sowing doubt, he had inadvertently cultivated her legend. The city is now beginning to see her as a paragon of virtue and maternal love; the Church saw a pious benefactor; his own knights saw in her those petty and useless ideals of chivalry, and he was becoming a villain in a story where he was supposed to be the hero!
His office, once a symbol of his power, now felt like a cage. He stared out of the window overlooking the city, his eyes narrowed. Every laughing citizen, every knight on patrol, felt like a judgment directed to him. He had to act. His final gambit had to be decisive, irrefutable. It couldn't be about whispers or accusations. It had to be about law. About tradition!
His gaze fell upon a line of dusty, leather-bound books on a shelf in the corner. The legal codices of Mondstadt. He had dismissed them before, too engrossed in his political scheming. But now... now he needed something old, something unassailable. Something that would force her into a corner that she could not escape!
"Melisa Minci!" he bellowed, his voice raw with frustration. He knew of the shy librarian, the one who practically lived in the bowels of the library. She was malleable, easily intimidated. She would be his perfect and obedient tool.
When the timid woman arrived, clutching a stack of books in her chest as if they were a shield, Randolf didn't even bother with pleasantries. He pointed a shaking finger at the legal codices.
"All of them. On my desk. Now. Find me every law, every precedent, every ancient rite pertaining to succession, guardianship, and the resolution of familial disputes. Go!"
The poor woman, her face pale, practically scurried to obey.
Hours later, surrounded by mountains of parchments, his eyes bloodshot from reading by lamplight, Randolf found it. Tucked away in a section detailing archaic crisis management measures from the era after Decarabian's fall, was a passage that made his black heart sing.
A 'Trial by Combat'.
Not just any duel, but a ritual sanctioned by Barbatos himself to settle a dispute over a succession crisis within a noble clan. Previously used 600 years ago during a succession crisis in the Ragnvindr clan. The details were exquisite. It was to be public, in the presence of the clan and the citizenry of Mondstadt. The winner would not only secure custody of any disputed properties or individuals in question but, with the approval of at least half of the clan members present, could be formally adopted into the mainline of the clan! This is his ticket! His perfect, beautiful, bloody ticket to the Gunnhildr fortune and name!
He would challenge that damn woman. He would force her to fight him, to face the authority of the Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius. He would break her, publicly, and claim his prize!
A predatory grin spread across his face. He summoned Melisa once more, who flinched as he slammed the heavy book down in front of her.
"You will draft an official letter of challenge," he commanded, his voice dripping with venomous triumph. "Address it to Artoria Pendragon. You will state the law, the terms, and the time. Four days from now, in the plaza outside the headquarters. You will not fail to convey the utmost... seriousness of this matter."
____________________
(The Windswept Pleasance)
While Randolf was busy scheming and plotting his way to his so-called victory, we see Artoria in her room with Jean by her side trying to draw a picture of her mama using crayons.
Artoria for her part is currently humming a calming tune as she tries to do knitting, a skill that she grew fond of these past few days. As she was peacefully trying to learn more about her new hobby, Barbara who was sleeping at the bed surrounded by a cute wall of pillows which Artoria gushingly dubbed as Fort Baby, began to stir in hunger. She then stops her knitting and prepares to feed the little baby.
This daily ritual of motherhood has become her solace, her anchor. The immense, cosmic power that thrummed within her, the power to unmake mountains and boil seas, felt distant and almost irrelevant. What mattered was the warmth of Jean's small hands in hers, the weight of Barbara in her arms, the simple, profound act of providing comfort and nourishment. In her memories of a bygone life, she had ruled a kingdom, led armies, and wielded weapons that could kill gods. None of it compared to the quiet, overwhelming love she felt right now.
She picked up Barbara, cradling her close. The infant's soft whimpers stilled as she was held, her tiny mouth already searching. Artoria sat on the edge of the large bed, unfastening the top of her part of her shirt with practiced ease, the divine clothing yielding to her touch. She smiled down at her daughter, a soft, private smile of pure contentment.
Jean, seeing this, dropped her crayon. Her brow furrowed in a way that Artoria was beginning to recognize as a precursor to one of her small, determined storms. The little girl got up from her chair and walked over to the bed, her small fists clenched at her sides.
"Mama," she said, her voice a tight little knot of possessiveness. "Barbara gets milk all the time."
"Yes, my sweet Jean," Artoria said gently, her voice a soothing balm. "She is a baby. She needs to eat more often."
"But I'm hungry too," Jean insisted, her lower lip beginning to tremble. It was a familiar, endearing display of sibling jealousy, a sign that she felt safe and secure enough to express such petty wants. It was a sign that she was healing.
Artoria's heart melted. She patted the space on the bed beside her. "Come here then."
Jean's eyes lit up. She scrambled onto the bed, snuggling close to Artoria's other side. The knight goddess shifted, accommodating both children, a picture of impossible domesticity. She then offered her large full breasts to her daughters, each one being suckled by her precious girls. The serene expression of love plastered in Artoria's face and the gentle maternal air that surrounds her made her look like a Mother Goddess nourishing her children. Her milk (which for some reason she was able to produce) was not mere mortal sustenance; it was laced with her own divine essence, a potent cocktail of life energy and divine power. Each swallow was a blessing, a small act of apotheosis that would, in time, elevate her daughters to a state beyond human.
Artoria was in her most peaceful state, in her arms she held the two children who had become her most priceless treasures.
The tender scene however was interrupted by a soft, hesitant knock at the door. But Artoria didn't care, she sensed no malice on the person behind the door, only a large bundle of nervousness and anxiety. Artoria's focus was only spared towards her two most precious bundles of joy who are happily drinking her milk. Artoria felt complete, she felt whole. It was the feeling she'd been chasing her whole life, a feeling of purpose that wasn't tied to a crown or a kingdom, but to the two small hearts beating against her own.
The knock came again, a little louder this time, followed by a meek voice. "Excuse me... Lady Pendragon? I... I have a delivery for you."
"Come in," Artoria called out, her voice calm and steady. The door creaked open, and a woman with short brown hair and wide, anxious brown eyes peeked in. She was clutching a sealed envelope to her chest as if it were a live snake. This was Melisa Minci, and she looked as if she would rather be facing a Ruin Guard right now.
Melisa stepped inside, her gaze immediately falling upon the tableau on the bed.
Her breath hitched.
She had heard the rumors, seen the woman from a distance, but nothing had prepared her for this. The sight of the magnificent, gorgeous blonde, a woman whose beauty could pass for a deity, serenely breastfeeding two children was a scene of such raw, sacred intimacy that it felt wrong to witness.
It was holy. It was the Madonna and Child, rendered in mythic splendor. A blush, deep and mortified, crept up Melisa's neck and painted her cheeks crimson.
"I... I am so terribly sorry,my Lady." she stammered, her eyes fixed on the floorboards. "I... the letter... I was told to deliver it directly." She scurried forward, her movements clumsy, and placed the envelope on the small table by the door, desperate to complete her mission and flee.
"Thank you," Artoria said, her voice kind, unperturbed. "There's no need to apologize. You're only doing your duty." She continued to gently stroke Barbara's back, her presence a calming anchor in the room.
Melisa hesitated at the door, her curiosity momentarily overriding her terror. She risked a glance back at Artoria, who was now looking at her with those emerald eyes, eyes that held not annoyance, but a quiet understanding. In that gaze, Melisa didn't see a foreign usurper or a dangerous charlatan that the Grandmaster had painted. She saw a mother. A gentle, protective and loving mother, just like herself, trying to navigate a world that was too big and too dangerous. A wave of empathy washed over her, replacing her fear. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of respect before reaching out and closing the door softly behind her.
"Come dear and sit. There's no need to be nervous Miss Minci, after all aren't we both mothers as well?" Artoria said with a gentle voice, her eyes not leaving her two precious cargos.
Melisa quietly but still nervously sat in one of the wooden chairs inside the room.
"You....you know me, my lady?" Melisa asked the serene goddess looking woman in front of her.
"I may be new in the city of Mondstadt but that doesn't mean that I'm not aware of the people living in it, especially the ones that are as kind and hardworking as you." Artoria gave a gentle smile to Melisa, a smile that made the timid librarian's heart flutter a little.
"Your daughter Lisa, I've heard that she's quite the academic prodigy. I believe she will bring you great honor in the near future." Artoria added
Melisa was stunned. Not only does this mysterious woman possess a grace and beauty that rivals that of the archons themselves, but she also possessed a knowledge that she couldn't have possibly acquired in such a short amount of time! She had only been in Mondstadt for a few weeks! How...how did she know about her precious Lisa?! A shiver went down Melisa's spine. This woman...this Artoria Pendragon...is more than what she appears to be!
Jean, having had her fill, pulled back with a soft sigh, a drop of the divine milk glistening on her lip. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at her mother, her blue eyes drowsy with contentment. "Mama," she mumbled, laying her head on Artoria's shoulder. "That was yummy."
Artoria chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed to make the room even brighter. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, my little lion." She carefully adjusted her clothing, then shifted Barbara, who had fallen asleep at her breast, into a more comfortable position. The baby let out a soft sigh, her tiny fingers curling around a lock of Artoria's golden hair.
Her gaze fell upon the envelope Melisa had left. The official seal of the Knights of Favonius, stamped in dark red wax, was an ugly blemish on the otherwise serene room. With a graceful, fluid motion, she laid Barbara back into the fortress of pillows and rose from the bed, tucking Jean in beside her sister.
She picked up the letter. Her divine senses could feel the intent imbued within the parchment, the malice, the glee, the desperate ambition of the man who had dictated it. She didn't need to read it to know its contents, but she would give him the courtesy of acknowledging his formal folly.
She broke the seal with a flick of her thumb, the hard wax cracking like brittle bone. She unfolded the heavy paper and read. Her emerald eyes scanned the formal, archaic language, her expression unchanging as she began to read out loud the contents of the disgusting letter. This action was not done to belittle the timid librarian in front of her but rather it was a subtle warning, a proclamation to the world that she will not be cowed by a petty man with delusions of grandeur. She will read this letter that was sent by this snake with the pride and dignity worthy of a goddess.
"Let's see what this worm has to say..." Artoria's voice held no trace of anger, only a profound, chilling disappointment.
'To the usurper known as Artoria Pendragon,' she began, her voice a calm, clear recitation that cut through the room's quiet intimacy. She read each word with the deliberate precision of a judge passing a sentence on a condemned man.
'Be it known that, in accordance with the ancient laws of Mondstadt, ratified by the Anemo Archon Barbatos in the year 896, you are hereby summoned to a Trial by Combat.'
Jean stirred, her sleep troubled by the coldness in her mother's voice. Artoria instinctively reached out, placing a calming hand on her daughter's head, her touch transmitting a wave of soothing energy.
'This trial is to determine the rightful guardianship and custody of Jean and Barbara Gunnhildr, heiresses of the Gunnhildr clan. The trial shall take place four days hence, at high noon, in the plaza before the Knights of Favonius Headquarters. It shall be conducted in full view of the clan members and the good people of Mondstadt.'
Artoria paused, her eyes lifting from the parchment to meet Melisa's wide, frightened ones. She held the librarian's gaze for a moment, a silent acknowledgment of the woman's uncomfortable role as messenger. Then, she returned to the letter.
'Let the victor, by right of arms and strength, be deemed the worthy party. Upon victory, and with the majority approval of the assembled Gunnhildr clan, the victor shall be granted the right of ascension into the main line, with all privileges and inheritances therein. Should you fail to appear, you will be declared a coward and a charlatan, and your claim over the children will be rendered null and void.'
She finished reading. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the soft breathing of the sleeping girls. Artoria didn't crumple the letter or tear it to shreds. She simply folded it neatly, her movements precise and economical, and laid it back on the table. It was no longer a threat; it was an appointment.
"He truly has no shame," she murmured, half to herself, half to the trembling librarian. "To twist a law designed to protect the people into a tool for his own greed. This is not justice. This is a farce."
Artoria mentally faced palmed at the absurdity and length this man would go to just satisfy his own greed and lust for power. It was a pathetic, transparent ploy, yet it was one she was now legally bound to answer.
Melisa Minci sat frozen in her chair, her knuckles white where she gripped the armrests. The reality of what she had delivered, the venomous challenge contained within that simple envelope, was finally sinking in. This wasn't a political squabble; it was a sanctioned death match.
"He... he can't do this," she whispered, her voice quaking. "Grandmaster or not, this is... this is barbaric!"
"It is the law, however ancient," Artoria stated, her tone devoid of emotion. She was already moving past the outrage and into the cold calculus of what must be done. "And in Mondstadt, the land of Freedom, the law is paramount and is to be respected. Even a bad law must be addressed." She turned her full attention to Melisa, her emerald eyes seeming to peer directly into the librarian's soul. "You have done your duty, Miss Minci. You have borne a difficult message with courage. I will not forget it."
The sincerity in this woman's voice washed over Melisa, a stark contrast to Randolf's blustering commands. It was a validation she hadn't realized she so desperately needed. "I... I just... The children..."
"Will be safe," Artoria finished, her promise a stone dropped into the stillness of the room. It was not an empty platitude; it was a statement of fact, as immutable as the rising of the sun. "They will always be safe with me."
A new thought seemed to occur to her. "Miss Minci," she said, her voice shifting to a more inquisitive tone, "you are the head librarian, are you not? A scholar. Tell me, of the ancient laws, is there no precedent for... a substitute? A champion to fight in one's stead?"
Melisa, grateful for the chance to be useful, furrowed her brow in thought. "A champion? For a matter of succession and clan honor... I believe not, my lady. The rite is a test of the claimant's own personal right and worth. To send another would be an admission of one's own inadequacy. The law is... quite specific on that point. The combatants must be the principals themselves."
"I see," Artoria mused. "So, the little man wants to face me himself. How brave." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, but it held no humor, only a dangerous light.
"Tell me Miss Minci, how strong is the Grandmaster?" Artoria almost purred out the question causing Melisa to instinctively recoil from the threatening tune of her voice. However she calmed herself down, this being in front of her is not the threat. She is a mother, a protective one at that.
Melisa took a steadying breath. "Grandmaster Randolf... he is... an adequate swordsman, my lady. He passed his trials when he was young and had risen through the ranks quickly…though there are some unsavory rumors about his promotion but none had yet dared speak about it."
"Oh I see, so one last question my dear, would there be any consequences if let us say one of the participants is accidently KILLED during combat, hmm?" Melisa saw a predatory look on Artoria's eyes as when she emphasized on the word 'KILLED'. It was the look of a predator toying with her prey! Her entire posture changed from that of a loving mother to that of a queen issuing a death sentence!
Melisa's breath hitched in her throat, and she felt the blood drain from her face. The serene mother goddess had vanished, replaced by an executioner, a being whose very presence was an imminent death sentence. She felt like a mouse cornered by a lioness, and yet, a strange part of her didn't feel the threat was directed at her.
"The law... the law is clear on that as well," Melisa stammered, her voice barely a whisper. "Death... is an accepted outcome. The trial is to determine the stronger claim. If one party is killed, then their claim, and their life, is forfeit. The victor faces no... repercussions. It is considered... divine judgment."
A small, cold smile finally graced Artoria's lips. It was not a smile of joy, but of chilling, final understanding. "Divine judgment," she repeated softly. "How appropriate. He has summoned a reckoning, and he shall receive one." Artoria smiled at the thought. Then she asked her final question.
"Oh and one last thing my dear." The cold atmosphere of the room suddenly turned back to normal in an instant! Artoria was back to her gentle, loving mother persona as if nothing happened. Melisa was stunned at the sudden shift in atmosphere that she almost forgot how to breathe.
"Since this 'trial' is considered a public event. It would only be proper to present myself in a manner that the people of Mondstadt will remember. I require a set of formal clothing, a dress worthy of a noble lady. Do you know someone perhaps in the city that can make such a dress for me?"
The whiplash was disorienting. One moment, Melisa was staring into the abyss of a divine killer's intent; the next, she was being consulted as if she were a trusted friend on matters of fashion. It took her a moment to recalibrate, to understand that this was not a contradiction, but the full scope of the woman before her. The loving mother and the merciless warrior were two sides of the same coin, forged in the same heart.
"A... a dress?" Melisa repeated, her mind racing to catch up. "Yes, of course. There is... there is only one person in Mondstadt who could craft something of the caliber you would require. Her name is Marjorie. She runs the 'With Wind Comes Glory' boutique here in the city. Her work is... without equal. But my lady, her services are very much in demand, and she is very particular about her clientele."
"I am sure we can come to an arrangement," Artoria said, her voice smooth as silk. "Tell her Artoria Pendragon requires her finest creation. A dress of sapphire blue and silver, in the style of the old Gunnhildr courts. Tell her the payment will be... substantial."
She walked over to the table and, without looking, picked up the heavy pouch of Mora the Grail had provided. She tossed it to Melisa, who fumbled, her eyes widening as she felt the immense weight of the coins. It was enough to buy the boutique itself, ten times over.
"Give this to her as a down payment," Artoria said. "And ask her to deliver it to The Windswept Pleasance three days from now."
Melisa simply stared at the pouch, then at the calm, smiling woman who had just commissioned her own coronation gown for a duel to the death.
Behind Artoria's serene composure lies a cackling warrior drowning in the inevitable blood bath that is to come. Oh she's gonna beat that little worm so hard with her own two hands that he'll BEGfor the sweet mercy of death! But, she's gonna BEAT HIM IN STYLE, after all, for a perfect dish of revenge, one must first thoroughly marinate the opponent in the finest sauce of HUMILIATION.
Artoria can't wait.
"I... I will see to it immediately, my lady," Melisa stammered, clutching the pouch like a holy relic. She offered a clumsy curtsy and all but fled the room, the weight of the Mora and the weight of the future pressing down on her equally.
____________________
The next three days were a strange, quiet dream for Artoria. The world outside their room was abuzz with the news of the Grandmaster's challenge.
Posters, crudely drawn and dripping with vitriol, appeared all over the city. They depicted a shadowy, cloaked figure with wild hair, the Grand Master's pathetic attempt at caricaturing Artoria snatching two blonde dolls from a weeping, idealized version of Mondstadt. The words "CHARLATAN" and "USURPER" were scrawled in angry red letters.
But Randolf's propaganda was a fool's errand. The people of Mondstadt were not idiots. They had seen Artoria. They had seen the love in her eyes as she held her daughters, the quiet dignity in her stride, the effortless grace that was impossible to fake. The posters only made them pity and despise Randolf even more. The whispers in the taverns were no longer about the mysterious woman's origins, but about the Grandmaster's desperate schemes.
Inside the Windswept Pleasance, there was only peace. Marjorie, the dressmaker, had arrived with a flurry of apologies and wide-eyed wonder. She had measured Artoria with trembling hands, muttering about "a figure from a history book." The next day, she returned with the dress.
It was a masterpiece. A gown of deep, sapphire-blue silk that flowed like liquid starlight, embroidered with subtle silver thread in patterns of soaring dandelions and proud lions. The high collar was modest and regal, the sleeves long and flowing. It was not the dress of a courtier, but of a warrior queen, a garment that spoke of both noble heritage and unyielding strength. It was, in essence, the perfect fusion of Artoria's past and present.
____________________
The morning of the trial dawned bright and clear. The plaza outside the Knights of Favonius Headquarters was packed. It seemed that the entire city had turned out to witness the spectacle.
Members of the distant branches of the Gunnhildr clan, a somber collection of nobles who seemed to let their heritage fade into mere surnames, stood in a reserved section, their faces a mixture of apprehension and morbid curiosity. They expected a farce, a final, ugly stain on their family's once glorious name.
All the members of the Knights of Favonius are present by orders of the Grandmaster. They are to witness the fight in full attendance. A way to not only intimidate his opponent, but to cow them into submission. From Sir Hemlock to Miss Minci, they all are there. There is a somber atmosphere around them as if they are all ashamed for how low the Grandmaster has brought their Order.
Even the Church of Favonius came in full force to witness the spectacle. They would usually detest contests involving the possible spillage of blood in the sacred grounds of the city built by Barbatos but Father Theron senses something monumental is about to happen. Something that will define the future of their beloved city for years to come. Hence he urged every Brother, every sister and every priest of the Church of Favonius to come to the plaza and witness the duel. To witness the truth, to witness justice. He didn't know what will happen but as a man of faith he believes that Barbatos, even in his slumber, has already chosen his side.
Then, a silence fell over the crowd. From the doors of the headquarters, Randolf Gunnhildr emerged. He had chosen his armor with painstaking care. It was a gleaming, ceremonial piece, polished to a mirror shine and inlaid with fine jewels that caught the sunlight with vulgar ostentation. He carried a massive claymore, its edge gleaming wickedly. He believed his stature, his weapon, the very authority of his station would be enough to intimidate this foreign woman into submission or, if she dared to fight, to overwhelm her.
He stood in the center of the designated dueling area, puffing his chest out, soaking in the attention. He looked every bit the Grandmaster he tried to portray himself into, a figure of power and consequence. To those who didn't know better, he was the embodiment of Mondstadt's strength.
Seeing that his opponent hasn't yet arrived Randolf, in his pride, began throwing insults to his absentee opponent who is the current bane of his existence.
"Where is that cowardly usurper?! Has she fled the city like a dog with its tail between its legs?! Let her flee! For the glory and honor of the Gunnhildr clan will be restored today!" He shouted for all to hear. Yet his voice only garnered some boos and jeers from the crowd of Mondstadt's citizenry.
The members of the Gunnhildr clan could only bow their heads in shame as the man in front of them continued to drag the name of their once glorious noble clan into the mud.
The very same thing is occurring among the ranks of the Knights of Favonius. The insults that their disgrace of a Grandmaster was throwing at Lady Artoria was insulting for the entire Order! They were not insults for Artoria alone, but insults to their very being, to the oaths they took. Each word from Randolf's mouth was like a lash, and they felt each and every one of it.
And then, she arrived.
She didn't burst through the doors or stride with military purpose. She simply... appeared, stepping out from the shadow of an archway leading from the city streets, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
A collective gasp rippled throughout the plaza, followed by a profound, reverent silence.
She was not in armor. She was dressed in the gown Marjorie had crafted, a vision of sapphire and silver that moved with a liquid grace that defied gravity. The deep blue of the silk made her golden hair seem to burn with an inner light, and the silver embroidery caught the sun, transforming her into a living constellation. She wore no crown, yet her bearing was more regal than any queen. She carried no visible weapon, yet her presence was more formidable than any army.
As she walked towards the dueling circle, the whispers of the crowd were not of doubt, but of awe. "She has the look... the true look of the Gunnhildrs," one elderly noble whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "The same green eyes as my grandmother, the same proud stance. I have not seen it in a generation."
The rumors, once just hopeful speculation, now crystallized into an unshakable belief. This is no charlatan. This is a lioness who had returned, the lost scion of their bloodline, come to reclaim her pride!
For the first time in decades, the fire of their ancient nobility was rekindled in their hearts. They straightened their backs, their gazes fixed on Artoria, seeing in her the future they thought they had lost forever. The air around her was not just that of nobility; it was sacred. A Sanctified air that commands respect and at the same time kindness and mercy.
Randolf's face, for a moment, was a canvas of pure, unadulterated shock. His carefully constructed narrative of her being a conniving commoner shattered against the reality of her presence. He had expected to face a defiant warrior in dented armor, not a goddess gracing a public festival. He quickly recovered, his shock twisting into a mask of derision, though the sweat beading on his brow betrayed his unease.
"So, the usurper finally decided to grace us with her presence!" he bellowed, his voice a desperate attempt to seize control of the narrative. "Dressed for a ball, are we? Have you come to beg for mercy? To curtsy and relinquish your ill-gotten claim?"
Artoria offered no reply. Her expression was serene, her emerald eyes holding a look that was almost... bored and apathetic. It was as if his words were the annoying buzz of a gnat, entirely beneath her notice. She walked past the crowd and the watching knights, her gaze sweeping over them, acknowledging them, and in that simple act, she claimed them.
When she reached the edge of the dueling circle, she stopped. Instead of accepting a sword from a squire, as protocol dictated, she turned to the side of the plaza. There, leaning against the wall, was a row of training equipment used by the new recruits. Her eyes settled on a single, unassuming object: a dull, metallic training sword, its edges blunted, its weight meant for building muscle, not drawing blood.
She walked over and picked it up. She hefted it once, testing its balance with a practiced flick of her wrist. It was an ugly, utilitarian thing, utterly unworthy of the plaza, of the occasion, of her. And yet, it was perfect.
Randolf stared, his brain struggling to process the sight. A low, incredulous laugh escaped his lips, quickly building into a hysterical, mocking roar that echoed across the plaza. "A training sword?! HAHAHA! Is this a joke?! Have you come here to win over me by making me laugh?! By all the gods, woman, your arrogance is matched only by your stupidity!"
The Knights of Favonius stared, their faces a mixture of confusion and dawning horror. Why? Why would their idol, the living embodiment of chivalry they had so quickly come to worship, intentionally disarm herself? It made no sense. It was an insult to the gravity of the trial, to their own traditions.
But Sir Hemlock, the grizzled veteran, saw it. His old eyes, which had witnessed true knights in their prime, widened in the sudden, profound act. It wasn't arrogance. It was the purest, most devastating statement of contempt imaginable. She was not just saying she could beat him; she was saying he was not even worthy of being considered an armed threat. The training sword was not a weapon; it was a statement. It was a rod for discipline.
"This is your last chance, woman!" Randolf screamed, his face now a mottled purple with rage. The public ridicule, the sight of her serene confidence, it was all cracking his facade. "Yield now! Drop that pathetic stick and relinquish the children, and I may yet spare you a public flogging!"
Artoria finally looked at him, her gaze cool and steady. "You have invoked the law, Randolf Gunnhildr," she said, voice clear as a bell, cutting through his ranting. "Let us not waste time with words. Let us proceed…. to the judgment."
The contemptuous dismissal in her tone was the final straw. With a roar of pure fury, Randolf charged.
He was faster than Artoria had expected. The ceremonial armor, she realized, was not just for show; it was enchanted. The air crackled with Anemo energy as he lunged, his massive claymore held high, the jewel-encrusted steel whistling through the air with lethal intent. It was a blow meant to cleave a man in two.
To Artoria however, it was like watching things in slow motion. She saw the tension in his shoulders, the tell-tale twitch of his eyes, the slight imbalance in his forward charge. She didn't even draw the training sword to block. She simply took one small, casual step to the side. The claymore, a weapon of immense power, sliced through the empty air where she had been standing a heartbeat before, the force of its passage kicking up a gust of wind that ruffled the skirts of her gown.
Randolf overextended, stumbling forward from the momentum of his missed swing. He turned, his eyes wide with disbelief. She was standing there, perfectly poised, the dull training sword resting casually on her shoulder, looking at him with an expression that was almost pitying.
He roared again and attacked. A ferocious series of slashes and hacks, each one a display of his knightly training, each one infused with the crackling power of his Anemo Vision. He was a whirlwind of steel and fury.
And Artoria was a statue in the heart of the storm.
She moved with an elegance that was breathtaking to behold. Not a single motion was wasted. She flowed around his attacks, a whisper of silk and silver, the blunt training sword rarely leaving her shoulder. She ducked under a horizontal sweep that would have beheaded her, the wind of its passage rustling her hair. She sidestepped a thrust, her body so close to his that the embroidered lions on her gown nearly brushed against his polished armor. She was everywhere and nowhere, a phantom weaving through the tempest of his rage, her serene expression never faltering.
"Coward!" he spat, panting, his arms burning with effort. "Fight back! Stop dancing and fight like a man!"
"I am fighting," Artoria's calm voice replied, somehow audible over the clang of his exertions. "But first, a lesson."
As he lunged again, she finally moved. Not to dodge, but to intercept. She swung the training sword, now imbued with a small trace of her power. It was not a fast swing, nor a powerful one. It was a simple, almost lazy arc. It met his descending claymore not with a block, but with a precise, resonant tap on the flat of the blade.
The effect was cataclysmic.
A shockwave, visible as a distortion in the air, erupted from the point of impact. It wasn't the sound of metal on metal; it was the deep, resonant 'CRACK' of a fundamental law of physics being broken. The immense power Randolf had poured into his strike, the Anemo energy, the force of his own body weight, it all met an immovable object and was reflected back upon itself a thousandfold.
The beautifully crafted, jewel-encrusted claymore didn't just shatter. It disintegrated. The steel splintered into a thousand glittering fragments. The jewels embedded in its hilt popped like bubbles. All that remained in Randolf's hands were two useless, jagged stumps of the once-proud weapon.
He stared at the ruined remnants of his sword, his mind a complete blank. The crowd stared, a collective, stunned silence descending upon the plaza. The Knights of Favonius stared, their understanding of power and combat being utterly rewritten in a single, impossible moment.
"As I was saying," Artoria continued, her voice still a calm, instructional murmur, "A knight's strength does not lie in his weapon, but in his heart. His purpose. His honor."
She stepped forward. Randolf, still paralyzed by shock, stumbled back. "A knight protects the weak. He does not prey upon their grief for personal gain."
Another swing of the training sword. This one was a casual backhand, aimed at his chest. The blunt edge of the metal connected with his ornate breastplate. The 'CLANG' was deafening, followed by the groaning, shrieking sound of tortured metal. The breastplate, enchanted and forged to withstand the might of an abyssal monster, caved inwards as if struck by a battering ram. The intricate silver filigree tore, the jewels shattered, and the metal warped, wrapping itself around his torso.
Randolf was thrown backwards, his feet leaving the ground. He crashed into the hard flagstones ten meters away, the air driven from his lungs in a pained gasp.
"He serves a higher ideal than his own ambition," Artoria's voice continued, a lecture in the midst of a storm. She walked toward him, her steps unhurried, the training sword now held loosely at her side. "His loyalty is to the people, not to a name or a title. His authority is earned through sacrifice and virtue, not seized through bribery and deceit."
She was upon him now. He looked up, his face a mask of agony and terror, the mangled ruin of his armor making it difficult to breathe. He tried to speak, to beg, to surrender, but only a wet, gurgling sound escaped his lips.
Artoria looked down at him, and in her emerald eyes, he saw no anger, no hatred. He saw only judgment. Cold, absolute, and final. "You are no knight, Randolf Gunnhildr. You are a disgrace to the title, a blight upon this order, and a stain upon the name you so desperately covet."
She raised the training sword once again. This time it wasn't meant for a killing blow, it is to deliver a series of SEVERE PUNISHMENTS. It was something far, far worse than death itself.
"You are unworthy."
Artoria then began bludgeoning Randolf with the flat of the blade using her monsterous strength. A barrage of strikes that defies logic. Each strike of her blunted training sword was accompanied by a sickening CRACK and a BOOMING sound of a shockwave that rippled throughout the plaza. The once proud Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius is now reduced into a screaming man in a shattered armor that is continuously being beaten into a pulp by a woman in a beautiful dress that holds the aura of a goddess!
She broke his arms with two precise strikes, the bones snapping like dry twigs.
She shattered his kneecaps with two more, the sound echoing like gunshots.
She broke his ribcage, his legs, his shoulders with a systematic, almost clinical detachment. She was not fighting him; she was dismantling him, piece by agonizing piece. Each blow was a lecture, each fracture a verse in the epic poem of his downfall.
"Let this be a lesson!" her voice boomed over his screams, her voice amplified by the subtle unseen divine energy swirling around her, addressing not just the broken man at her feet, but the entire crowd, the entire order. "Let this be the foundation upon which the Knights of Favonius will be rebuilt! Let this be the standard by which all future knights will be judged! Let all who witness this know the price of failing the very ideals you have sworn to protect!"
With a final, contemptuous strike, she ended it all. A powerful upwards swing that sent the thoroughly broken and beaten man flying through the air like a broken rag doll. He soared a hundred meters across the plaza, his body a limp, twisted thing, before crashing headfirst into the thick stone wall of the Knights' Headquarters. The impact was catastrophic. A massive crater spiderwebbed across the solid stone, dust and chips of masonry exploding outwards.
Randolf fell to the ground in a heap, a pile of shattered armor and broken bone. He didn't move. He barely breathed. He was alive, but only in the most technical sense of the word. His body was ruined, his voice gone, his ability to walk or use his arms, gone. He would forever be a crippled, a living monument to his own insatiable greed and hubris. A constant reminder to all about the folly of challenging a goddess and her children.
Silence.
A profound, earth-shattering silence descended upon the plaza. It was so absolute that Artoria could hear the soft rustle of her own dress in the gentle breeze. The crowd was frozen, their minds unable to process the out of this world violence they had just witnessed. It wasn't a duel; it was an execution.
She then turned her attention towards the knights and gave them what would later be known as the rousing speech that would herald the Rebirth of the Order. The speech that would be recorded in every history book in Mondstadt for generations to come.
"The Knights of Favonius are the swords and shields of Mondstadt! They are the protectors of Freedom, not the tools for ambition! The time for pageantry is over! The era of neglect and rot is at its end! I call upon each and every one of you, to look deep inside your hearts and remember the vows you once swore! Look to the citizens, look at the people you all swore to protect! Let this day mark the rebirth of your order! A rebirth that will be forged by your own hands, by your own will! A rebirth that will bring back the glory that your ancestors once cherished!"
The Knights of Favonius present stared at her, their eyes wide, their souls laid bare. They had entered the plaza expecting to witness a humiliating defeat of the woman they had come to admire. Instead, they had witnessed a transition, of one era to the next. They had seen the truth of her words, not just in the speech, but in every effortless, devastating movement. The training sword had been a symbol. It was not the weapon that made the knight, but the heart that wielded it. She hadn't just defeated their Grandmaster; she had shown them what a true Grandmaster, what a true Knight, was supposed to be. A protector, a servant of the people, the embodiment of honor and strength. She had become their icon, their idol, their new standard!
Every single one of the Knights present have tears in their eyes. They couldn't even think of what to do next in the presence of this most magnanimous figure that had graced their fractured Order for the past few weeks.
Before any of the Knights could even speak, Artoria then turned to the stunned members of the Gunnhildr clan. Her emerald eyes softened as she addressed them.
"You have watched your family's legacy be dragged through the mud by a man who cared only for its name and its fortune," she said, her voice no longer the booming commander's, but the gentle, firm tone of a matriarch. "Your pride has slumbered. But I see in your eyes that it is not dead. It is waiting."
She let her gaze sweep over them, seeing the dawning hope, the rekindled fire. She did not claim to be one of them. She did not have to. In their hearts, they had already claimed her.
"Jean and Barbara are the future of your clan," she continued, her voice filled with a mother's love and a queen's authority. "I will raise them. I will teach them the strength of the Gunnhildr name, not as a burden of inheritance, but as a proud legacy of service. I will not let your history end. I swear it upon my honor."
The effect was electric. The old noble who had whispered about her eyes now stepped forward, his back straight, a tear tracing a path down his weathered cheek. He dropped to one knee, his right hand placed over his heart. It was an ancient, formal gesture of fealty, one not seen in Mondstadt for a century.
"The Clan of Gunnhildr recognizes you, Lady Artoria," he declared, his voice ringing with newfound conviction. "We see in you the fire of our ancestors. We see the mother of our future. We see our Matriarch."
One by one, the other members of the clan followed his lead. Men and women, young and old, they all knelt, a sea of devotion to the lioness who had returned to lead them. The whispers became a chant, their voices joining together.
"ALL HAIL THE MATRIARCH OF THE GUNNHILDR CLAN! ALL HAIL LADY ARTORIA!"
The citizens of Mondstadt, caught up in the historic moment, took up the cry. The Knights of Favonius, their order reborn in the crucible of the plaza, drew their swords and raised them in salute.
"ALL HAIL LADY ARTORIA!"
The sound swelled, a wave of adoration that washed over the plaza, a testament to the fact that on this day, in the heart of the city of freedom, a new legend had been born.
Artoria didn't expect this unusual outcome! In her mind, she thought that after winning, she would finally be allowed full custody of her daughters. She would then be able to raise them with all the love and care she can muster for them. She thought that she'd only get a nod of approval from the clan members for being the victor, SHE DIDN'T EXPECT THE MATRIARCHY OF THE CLAN TO BE HANDED OVER TO HER SO WILLINGLY BY ALL THE MEMBERS!
Even though she's speechless and literally stunned on the inside, Artoria kept a facade of serenity that only endeared her further to the clan and to the citizens of Mondstadt.
She then heard the uniformed marching sounds of the Knights behind her. And when she turned back to look at them, she was surprised when every single one of them knelt before her with their swords in front of them!
Oh no,no,no,no! What is going on here?!
The grizzled veteran, Sir Hemlock then came forward accompanied by Father Theron of the Church of Favonius. Both of them kneeled in front of her.
"My Lady," Sir Hemlock began, his old voice thick with emotion, his gaze fixed on the ground. "Our order is broken. Our leader is a disgraced ruin. The ideals we once cherished had become hollow words. Today, you have shown us the truth. You have shown us what it means to be a knight. Not only in the words you spoke, but in the strength of your arm, the mercy in your words, and the love you hold for your children."
He looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears of hope. "We, the Knights of Favonius, are lost without a worthy leader. We have no Grandmaster. We beg of you... take the mantle. Guide us. Restore our honor. Become our Grandmaster."
The air suddenly became tense as the crowd and the Knights held their breath in anticipation of Artoria's reply.
Father Theron then spoke up his voice calm but carrying an authority that can only be possessed by a man who spent his entire life in prayer and faith. "Lady Artoria, what Sir Hemlock speaks of is true. For years we in the Church have watched the slow decline of the Order under Grandmaster Randolf. We prayed for guidance. For a sign. The events of today... your victory... We see it as the will of Lord Barbatos himself. An angel of justice has descended upon our city to purge the rot within the Order. The Church of Favonius will support your leadership, my lady!"
This was another unexpected twist! Becoming Grandmaster of the Knights of Favonius?! She's a newly made goddess! A former King! One of her previous lives involved leading armies and governing a nation, but this... this is different! This is a sacred duty, a trust bestowed upon her by the very people she came to love these past few weeks. She cannot take this role lightly! She accepted the role of a mother to her precious children because of her own selfish desire to correct her past mistakes. But this... this is a responsibility for an entire city, for an entire nation, in a world governed by whimsical deities and forces!
She was about to politely decline this massive responsibility, to tell them that a person like her is not fit to lead an Order of Knights. But before she could utter a single word, she suddenly felt the warmth of a small hand suddenly touching that of her own. When she looked down she saw Jean looking at her with eyes full of trust and pride. The type of pride that only a child would show to her parents, the same pride that a knight would show to her queen.
"Mama," Jean said softly, her voice full of childlike wonder and happiness. "You should do it Mama. You should be the Grandmaster just like in the stories! The hero who becomes the leader and makes everything alright!"
…..
The simple, unwavering faith in her daughter's voice was all that it took for her hesitation to crumble. It was not a plea or a command, but a statement of fact, a truth seen through the pure lens of a child's heart. How could she refuse? How could she deny the hope she saw in her daughter's eyes? The very same hope that ignited the hearts of everyone in the entire city? She had accepted motherhood; now she must accept the duties that came with it, on a scale she had never imagined since arriving in this world.
A slow, weary but resolute smile touched her lips.
In an act that captured the hearts of all in attendance and would solidify the air of maternal love she had constantly portrayed. Artoria gently lifted up her precious little Jean in her arms causing the child to giggle. The world momentarily forgotten for her focus now is towards this most precious of children.
"Of course my little cub, Mama will become the Grandmaster because Mama' s precious little angel asked her to." She then peppered the little girl's face with kisses causing her to giggle in happiness that all stemmed from the love she's receiving from her mother.
The scene of motherly love captured the hearts of everyone in the city. From the common folks, to the Knights, nobles and clergy men alike! The sight of the mighty warrior who just moments ago had been an engine of divine destruction, now reduced to a loving mother playing with her child in her arms, was the most beautiful and humbling thing they had ever witnessed. It wasn't just the power of her strength that had won them over, it was the love in her heart.
After her little moment with her precious child, Artoria with Jean still in her arms turned to the awaiting knights and clergy. The tired smile still on her face.
"Well I can't keep you all waiting for too long." Her voice, though soft, carried the weight of a royal decree. "I accept. I accept the position, the mantle, not as a prize for this day's victory, but as a solemn duty. The title of Grandmaster is not a crown I seek, but a burden I will bear for the sake of Mondstadt. For the sake of its future. For my daughters' future."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the kneeling knights. "But know this. I will not be a Grandmaster who sits in an office and signs decrees. I will be a Grandmaster who will stand with you. Who trains with you. Who fights with you. The road ahead will not be easy. It will be one of hard work, of sacrifice, of relearning what it means to be true knights. I ask not for your fealty, but for your dedication. I ask you to build, with me, an Order worthy of this city of freedom."
The response was a roar. The knights rose as one, their swords held high, their voices joined in a thunderous cry that shook the very foundations of the plaza. "FOR THE GRANDMASTER! FOR LADY ARTORIA!"
In that moment, Artoria Pendragon, former King of Camelot, Goddess Rhongomyniad, and adoptive mother of two, became through sheer luck and twist of fate, the leader of the Knights of Favonius. A new chapter of her life had just begun.
(End of Chapter)
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Charisma (A+ Rank):
- The natural talent to command and sway an army and the people. Artoria, who previously ruled over Britain in her past life even while it was exposed to foreign enemies and having entirely repelled those enemies, possesses a very high charisma.
- With this, Artoria is able to easily sway the people with her words and inspire them towards a common goal.
Divine Arms Mastery
- The ascended version of the skill Eternal Arms Mastery.
- Since she's the literal amalgamation of all her forms, Artoria's mastership of combat arts has reached the point of being said to be unrivaled.
- She has achieved a complete merging of mind, body and technique that makes it possible for her to make use of the full fighting skills of all her forms.
- With this skill, she could use a simple fork, stick and even the bodies of her enemies and turn them into fierce weapons of combat.
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