The neatly folded letter floated in the air, neither flying away nor falling.
“Did Kellive send this?”
He was the only one in Avalon who would go so far as to send a letter by magic.
Morgana reached out as if plucking fruit from a tree and snatched the letter from the air.
Something thick shifted inside the envelope. When she tore it open, she found a small necklace with a magic stone attached.
The glittering golden stone resembled the color of Kellive’s eyes exactly.
Fiddling with the tangled necklace chain, she unfolded the letter. Neat, tidy handwriting greeted her.
【I heard from afar that you arrived safely in Britannia from the temple. If you find the time, will you come to Avalon?
If word spreads that Morgana is coming, the streets of the mages will light up. Everyone would welcome you. I’ve included a teleportation stone with this letter.
P.S. You left something behind. Why not come and get it?
— Kellive of Avalon】
“Left something behind? What could that be?”
If he had it, she must have left it at the temple. She carefully examined the back of the letter, but there was no mention of what the forgotten item might be.
If he went so far as to send a necklace, he could have easily included whatever it was in the letter itself.
She couldn’t understand why he’d only sent a necklace with a teleportation stone.
Tilting her head, Morgana folded the letter again.
“Did I drop something in my hurry to leave?”
It seemed she must have left behind one of the items Olivia had brought.
Otherwise, most of what she’d taken was safely stored in her magic tool bag—there was no way she’d misplaced anything.
In any case, the important part wasn’t the postscript.
Morgana stared intently at the letter.
After a long moment of scrutiny, she finally muttered, as if making up her mind.
“Fine. The nobles are dead set against it—why should I force myself to take the throne in Britain?”
Human nature was such that resistance only grew stronger when pushed.
And with the wedding approaching, how much more complicated would things become?
There was only one choice left for Morgana.
‘I’ll go.’
Even if I have to return someday, I’m leaving now.
At least until Tir na Nog’s elixir is distributed only to select nobles.
Just as I’d made my decision—
Knock, knock—
A maid rapped on the door and announced,
“Princess Guinevere is here to see you.”
Click—
The door opened, and Guinevere entered, looking inexplicably brighter than usual.
“Morgana, didn’t you like the painter I chose? Should I find someone else?”
“No! Your Highness, I’m going to Avalon!”
Morgana clenched her fists tightly, ready to flee if refused, and declared her resolve with dramatic finality.
Guinevere blinked in surprise but quickly responded, “Why?”
“Ah—I left something in Avalon! It’s true!”
She didn’t know what exactly, but Kellive had said so.
The excuse was perfectly plausible.
Afraid of further objections, Morgana quickly continued, “So let’s just pretend the wedding never happened. I’ll be in Avalon—if you need me, just send a letter!”
Grabbing the teleportation stone necklace and the letter, she strode right past Guinevere.
As she stepped outside, she heard a gentle reply:
“Alright then.”
Glancing back, she saw Guinevere watching her with a soft, indulgent smile.
‘She’s letting me go just like that?’
Clearly, even Guinevere must have thought the marriage was a bad idea.
Worried the princess might change her mind, Morgana gave a quick bow and dashed down the hallway.
Click—
Guinevere stood silently before the closed door.
Only after the sound of Morgana’s footsteps faded did she raise a hand to her lips, her expression grave.
“Morgana is going to Avalon?”
After taking a deep breath, she turned and called out sharply, “Summon Sir Lancelot—immediately!”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Despite the maid’s response, she paced restlessly around the room, swallowing her frustration.
“That smirking king must have done something. I never liked his face from the start.”
The only saving grace was that Morgana hadn’t publicly denounced the marriage during the ceremony. If the Marquis had witnessed such a scene, he would have seized any opportunity to stir trouble—whether against Morgana or Guinevere herself.
Knock, knock—
A light rap at the door interrupted her thoughts.
Lancelot entered with his usual easy demeanor.
“Shall I guess why you summoned me? Escort duty for the royal wedding, correct?”
“Wrong. Why would I entrust that to you? What if you and Morgana decided to elope?”
“I’m not that shameless. Though Lady Morgana is certainly beautiful.”
“Enough. I need you to go to Avalon.”
Lancelot’s playful smile vanished instantly. His voice turned serious.
“Are we going to war?”
“No. Morgana has gone to Avalon.”
“Why would she suddenly travel to another country right before the wedding?”
Guinevere sat on the edge of the table, arms crossed. She sighed deeply and shook her head knowingly.
“Everyone wanders a bit before their wedding. Morgana’s just having her moment.”
“Your Highness seems remarkably composed for someone who supposedly went through the same phase.”
“I got my rebellious phase out of the way early, thanks to the prophecy I received at birth. Anyway, since Morgana has left, we should send an official delegation from Britannia.”
“Do you think Avalon will receive us?”
Lancelot glanced around the room. Everything was in its place—except for Morgana. His voice grew heavier with concern.
“It’s been centuries since we last had dealings with Avalon. They’re practically an enemy nation. Do you really think they’ll welcome a delegation from Britannia, especially one that includes the wielder of the Holy Sword?”
“If I send you, they’ll have no choice. We’ll be so persistent they won’t be able to refuse.”
After all, they’d taken Morgana. This much was only fair.
For a brief moment, madness flickered in Guinevere’s eyes.
💫
A flock of pure white doves had taken over the skies around Avalon’s royal palace.
Their numbers were so vast that dark shadows formed intermittently across the ground, as though clouds were blocking the sun.
The birds clustered tightly around Kellive’s office—wherever there was space to perch, a dove carrying a message could be found.
Raon, witnessing this, smiled weakly as if about to collapse and began sorting through the letters.
“…Britain is sending an official delegation, they say.”
“Is that all?”
Kellive dismissed the doves with a simple question, to which Raon replied mournfully,
“…Every single dove carries the exact same message. And they’ve all been stamped with Britannia’s royal seal, no less.”
Normally, a few identical letters could be dismissed with a single refusal. But since these were official documents from Britannia’s royal court, each one had to be acknowledged—no matter how repetitive.
Kellive leaned back in his chair, surveying the desk piled high with identical missives.
“So they won’t take no for an answer.”
“…Britain is a terrifying country. This is outright obsession.”
“Let them come. If they’re this desperate, we might as well show them.”
Beyond the large window behind his desk, doves fluttered about busily—but Kellive remained perfectly at ease. If anything, he seemed amused, still staring at one particular letter with visible delight.
The message in his hand was scrawled haphazardly:
“I’m coming today.”
No sender’s name, no signature, no seal—but anyone could tell it was Morgana’s reply.
Kellive’s eyes softened slightly as he reread the short note. Lost in thought, he absently flexed his left hand, where not even a scar remained.
💫
In a back-alley tavern district of Avalon’s capital, the streets were unusually noisy.
“Wait, they’re really coming?”
“In my lifetime, I’d never thought I’d see Britannian envoys setting foot in Avalon.”
“What’s happening… Are you sure this isn’t a declaration of war?”
The merchants’ voices were thick with worry and disbelief, their tones laced with skepticism.
Behind them, a weapons shop door suddenly slammed open, and the merchants quickly shut their mouths, pretending not to notice as they turned away.
“Get out, you criminal! You think I’d hire trash like you? You know exactly what’s coming!”
The man who’d been half-thrown out tumbled roughly onto the street.
Gritting his teeth, he spat toward the shop owner and cursed.
“Tsk, what a joke. What’s the big deal now?”
“You shameless bastard. Balin, get a grip. I’m saying this out of old friendship.”
The man called Balin dusted himself off as he stood, muttering under his breath.
“With envoys coming, you’d think people could afford to be a little nicer.”
“Ah. I heard the one who pulled the Holy Sword is some clueless woman. And you think anyone would hire an ex-convict like you? Wake up.”
The shopkeeper sighed loudly, wiped his nose dismissively, and without another glance, slammed the door shut.
Balin, as if used to it, cracked his neck and looked around.
The merchants scattered like startled birds, ducking into their shops as though they’d never been watching.
Watching them flee, Balin let out a dry laugh and rolled his shoulders.
“The royal court must be having a field day.”
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