Arthur recalled the high priest he had met at the temple.
Indeed, as Vortigern had said, he was the kind of man who would curse others without hesitation.
But that was all.
Coldly, Arthur replied, “That’s just an excuse.”
How many people did Vortigern cut down in his pursuit of power? Far too many to count.
Not to mention, he had outright refused the request to send soldiers from the temple to the Caledonian Forest.
He was still a man who cared only for his own throne.
Arthur tightened his grip on the sword with both hands and raised it vertically—ready to pierce straight through the heart in a single strike.
Vortigern, trembling in terror, struggled to break free, but Arthur stomped hard on his abdomen, pinning him down.
Gasping for breath under the pressure, Vortigern barely managed to choke out his words.
“I-If only Duke Uther had spoken up a little sooner, things wouldn’t have come to this!”
“Ha! Now you’re blaming my father too.”
Arthur couldn’t even find out where his mother had died—yet here Vortigern was, shifting blame onto others.
There was no forgiving him.
As Arthur let out a bitter laugh, Vortigern’s voice grew louder.
“That commoner woman gave Duke Uther an early warning, didn’t she? It was Uther Pendragon who ignored it!”
Arthur’s mother had been a commoner. But the ‘lowborn woman’ Vortigern spoke of was someone Arthur knew nothing about.
Given the Pendragon family’s high status, it wouldn’t have been strange for someone to seek their help.
Yet Vortigern seized on this as if exposing Uther’s failure.
“Realized too late that she was right, didn’t you? If only you had come immediately after that woman’s warning, I wouldn’t have had to summon the high priest—”
“Shut up.”
With that flat remark, Arthur drove the sword down.
Vortigern, who had been ranting loudly just moments ago, would never speak again.
Once he confirmed Vortigern’s last breath, the actor placed a pre-prepared dagger in the dead king’s hand—making it look like suicide.
Bedivere, who had been watching from the sidelines, scoffed.
“No one will care how he died. Most of them were just waiting for him to drop dead anyway.”
💫
On the day of the knighting ceremony.
Following the general trend, Tir na Nog also opened its doors earlier than usual.
Morgana, holding Mangeum securely in her arms, watched Percival nodding off drowsily at the counter.
“I have to enter the palace to see Arthur’s knighting ceremony. I’ll be back in the afternoon…”
Before Morgana could even finish her sentence, the shop door burst open in a hurry.
Ding-a-ling—along with the sharp jingle of bells, two familiar faces stepped inside.
“Here, do you have any good medicine for a wound from a blade… Huh? Morgana?”
It was Lennon, supporting the groaning weaponsmith uncle as they entered. The uncle, his foot tightly wrapped in cloth, seemed to be in great pain just walking.
Shallow groans escaped his lips.
Lennon, clearly exhausted from helping him, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm and widened his eyes in surprise.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story. What happened to him?”
After a brief moment of confusion, Lennon seemed to remember the uncle’s condition and quickly answered.
“Ah, he dropped a weapon while displaying it and got his foot cut. So we came to buy herbs.”
“Oh, if that’s the case…”
Morgana lightly ran her fingers along the shelves.
As she moved, her swaying hair seemed to fascinate Mangeum, who began turning his head this way and that.
Eventually, Mangeum caught the tip of her hair in his mouth and started chewing.
Watching this, Lennon spoke up nervously, “Morgana. The puppy’s trying to eat your hair…?”
“He’s just playing!”
Thud—
Morgana pulled out a bottle and handed it straight to Lennon.
“Place this on top of the wound and wrap it with cloth. It’ll heal within half a day.”
“Ah, wait. The money—”
Morgana pressed the bottle into his hand as he struggled to reach into his back pocket while still supporting the uncle.
“Just take it. You’ve given me weapons before, so this one’s on me.”
“Morgana…!”
Lennon’s eyes shimmered as if deeply moved.
“Grrr… Lennon…”
Even though the pitiful groans of the dying man sounded genuinely painful, Lennon hurriedly seated him on a guest chair and unwrapped the cloth covering his foot.
Removing the cork stopper, he applied the medicinal herbs and, contrary to his usual clumsy demeanor, skillfully rewrapped the cloth.
His hands moved with such efficiency that it was hard to believe this was the same Lennon who always seemed so awkward.
Morgana widened her eyes in surprise at the unexpected display.
“You… you really are the son of a weaponsmith, aren’t you?”
“Of course. Handling weapons means getting hurt is just part of the job.”
Having meticulously finished his task, Lennon finally stepped back, and the man seemed to have regained enough strength to speak.
With great effort, he lifted his gaze to Morgana and managed a weak smile.
“That kid… When he was little, I wondered what he’d grow up to be. Now look at him, holding his own.”
The weaponsmith was one of the few who had known Morgana for a long time.
Even in her pre-possessed memories, he remained a familiar figure. Perhaps because of the pain, his smile was faint and distant.
“If Igraine could see this, how happy she would’ve been. Who knew she’d leave us like that?”
“Dad, if anyone heard you, they’d think you were on your deathbed. Always so dramatic.”
Lennon, standing nearby, retorted bluntly, but Morgana tilted her head at the weaponsmith’s words.
In her memories, there was no trace of how Igraine had died.
No matter how much she searched, all she recalled was merchants informing her of her mother’s death when she returned to the shabby mansion with herbs in hand.
Hearing his mutterings, as if he knew something about Igraine’s death, Morgana cautiously asked,
“Do you… know how Mom died?”
She hesitated slightly at the unfamiliar word ‘Mom,’ but smoothly continued without letting it show.
Perhaps due to the medicine taking effect, the man’s expression eased as he steadied his breath and answered.
“A few months before she died, she started acting strange. Not like she’d lost her mind, but… she wouldn’t respond no matter how much you called her.”
He frowned slightly and wrinkled his nose as he tried to remember. His gaze drifted upward as he recalled something from quite a while ago.
“But then, after some time, things seemed fine again. I think I heard someone say they saw her talking with some nobleman after that day…”
Rubbing his chin, he shook his head hesitantly before cautiously leaning forward.
With a serious expression, as if sharing a secret, the old man covered his mouth with one hand and whispered.
“I think… maybe Igraine had a crush on that nobleman?”
“Ugh, Dad. How many times have I told you to stop listening to those troubadours’ ridiculous stories?”
“You—! Why is it ridiculous? Reality’s even crazier!”
When Lenn scolded him, the old man widened his eyes in protest, looking genuinely wronged.
‘Just nonsense, then.’
Judging by the old man’s reaction, it seemed like he was just piecing things together randomly.
As Morgana half-listened to their bickering—Suddenly, the shop door burst open, and a mercenary rushed in.
“M-M-Milady!”
Not from Tir na Nog, but one of the mercenaries guarding Morgana’s estate. He must have sprinted here—gasping for air, he frantically pointed outside.
“T-The estate! The estate!”
“Yes, the estate. What about it?”
“M-Milady, at the estate!”
Struggling to catch his breath, he gaped like a fish. Morgana raised a hand, deliberately inhaling and exhaling slowly to guide him.
Following her lead, the mercenary steadied his breathing before finally managing a coherent sentence, his voice trembling as he pointed outside.
“M-Milady, knights from the royal palace have arrived at the estate.”
“Because of Arthur? He hasn’t come to my estate in a while. I’m not even there.”
“No, no. Not Arthur.”
Frustrated by her own speechlessness, the mercenary stomped in place, pounding his chest as he continued.
“No, uh, what was it? They said they came to escort Lady Morgana to be proclaimed queen!”
“…What, do what?”
Morgana shrieked, her eyes nearly bulging out of her head.
“B-but His Majesty Vortigern is still here?!”
The mercenary wiped his face, his expression twisted in disbelief and indignation.
“Well, last night, His Majesty Vortigern took his own life, or so they say.”
Stunned, she stood frozen with her mouth agape as the mercenary’s voice rang out clearly before her.
“By the oracle’s decree, the royal knights have filled the estate to escort Lady Morgana as queen.”
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