The golden halls of Camelot’s throne room shimmered under the ethereal glow of Rhongomyniad’s divine presence. The air was thick with tension—knights stood at attention, their armor gleaming, their expressions unreadable behind disciplined masks. At the foot of the towering throne, Morgan le Fay lingered like a storm barely contained, her lips curled in a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She had been a problem since her summoning—scheming, whispering, testing the boundaries of her sister’s patience.

The Lion King had tolerated it. At first.

But today, she had decided enough was enough.

Artoria Pendragon—no, Goddess Rhongomyniad—sat upon her throne, her golden gaze sweeping over the gathered knights. The weight of her divinity pressed down on the room, a silent reminder that defiance was not an option.

"Morgan," she began, her voice calm, measured, yet carrying the finality of a judge’s decree, "you have been granted a place in this court as my advisor. And yet, you persist in your... disruptions."

Morgan’s fingers twitched, her nails digging into her palm. "Oh? And what would you have me do, sister?" she purred, tilting her head. "Grovel? Beg for your forgiveness?" A flicker of something dangerous passed through her eyes. "Or perhaps you’d prefer me to simply vanish?"

Artoria didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she lifted a hand, and the space beside her throne rippled with golden light. A figure materialized—tall, clad in armor, a presence that sent an unmistakable shock through the room.

Morgan’s breath hitched.

No.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

"Knights of Camelot," the Lion King announced, her voice resonating like a bell, "welcome your newest brother-in-arms. A warrior who once stood before me as an enemy... and nearly prevailed."

The air grew heavier. Morgan’s heart pounded in her chest, her carefully constructed mask slipping for just a second—just long enough for Artoria to notice.

"Sir Accolon," the Lion King continued, her gaze locking onto Morgan’s, "has been granted the honor of serving this kingdom."

Morgan’s fingers trembled. She wanted to scream. To lash out. To burn everything down. But she couldn’t. Not here. Not yet.

Instead, she forced a laugh, sharp and mocking. "How nostalgic," she drawled, though her voice wavered ever so slightly. "Tell me, sister—was this your idea of a joke? Or just another one of your divine calculations?"

Artoria’s expression remained impassive. "You have always been... difficult to control, Morgan. But now, I believe you will find your loyalties... realigned."

The unspoken threat hung in the air.

Play along, or lose him again.

Morgan’s nails drew blood from her palms.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.