Raves gave a faint smile and answered bitterly, as if he might collapse at any moment.

 

“Judging by Her Highness’s personality, if you send her a wreath, the next thing won’t be a flock of carrier pigeons—it’ll be war. Please hold back.”

 

Yet even in the face of this life-risking frank advice, Kellive was calmly taking out letter paper and beginning to write.

 

For some reason, the corners of his mouth were stretched wide in an unusually pleased expression.

 

Raves seriously began to wonder whether he should build at least a temporary shelter under the mansion.

 

✨

 

Underground prison of the Holy Kingdom.

 

The solitary cell where Merlin was confined was being watched by guards who took turns without missing even a single minute.

 

Every day, from the solitary cell came the sound of Merlin writhing in agony from the holy relic’s burns.

 

“Ughhh, aaaaah…”

 

At first, he had shouted curses and demanded to be released, but perhaps exhausted now, even those outbursts had become somewhat infrequent lately.

 

As the next guard approached to take over the shift, the one standing watch lightly greeted him.

 

“Things seemed a bit chaotic outside today. Since I’m stuck down here, I haven’t heard any news. What’s going on?”

 

“Ah, apparently there’s some problem in Britannia, so they called for Lady Nimue.”

 

“Again? It’s not bad news, right? The atmosphere in the temple has been really off lately…”

 

Thanks to Merlin’s karma, ties with Avalon had long been severed.

 

Although Nimue had been working to restore relations since becoming High Priestess, once a relationship is broken, repairing it is never easy.

 

Especially for Avalon—which had suffered what was practically direct damage from Merlin’s oracle—the attitude toward reconciliation remained extremely passive.

 

Above all, donations from various nobles had noticeably decreased.

 

Since they couldn’t completely ignore divine power, they were grudgingly sending only the bare minimum contributions, clearly watching the situation.

 

With the coldly distant attitude from neighboring countries being felt on their skin, it was impossible for the Holy Kingdom not to feel troubled.

 

The guard who had been filling out the shift log on the wall answered his worried colleague in a slightly excited voice.

 

“No, it’s good news. Lady Nimue is personally close to the master of the holy sword, right? Apparently, that’s why they requested help from the temple.”

 

“Hey, that’s perfect. If Lady Nimue cooperates and the temple’s reputation gets even a little boost, it would be ideal.”

 

“Exactly. They say even Princess Guinevere gave her permission. This time, it actually seems worth looking forward to.”

 

The voices echoing down the underground prison corridor drifted faintly into Merlin’s solitary cell.

 

She was already drained of strength, sprawled gaunt and skeletal in the corner of the floor, but at those words, she slowly lifted her head.

 

In just a few days, her once-lovely lips had turned dry and cracked, her beautiful eyes sunken into dark hollows—every trace of her former grace erased.

 

The only thing still vividly alive was the venomous, blazing light that burned in her pupils, teetering between life and death.

 

Hearing the guards’ conversation, the corners of Merlin’s mouth stretched into a long, slow curve.

 

Blood trickled thinly from the split in her lips, yet she paid it no mind.

 

“Ha… haha…”

 

She dropped her head again, and then—shoulders trembling in a way that clashed horribly with the situation—she began to laugh.

 

The sound gradually swelled until it filled the entire cell.

 

“Hahahaha… so she went to Britain?”

 

Ahaha—her laughter grew so violent it stole her breath.

 

Outside, the guards pounded furiously on the iron door.

 

“Shut up! How dare a criminal act so shamelessly!”

 

“Hahahaha! You should be thanking me. All this time I’ve been the one protecting you fools!”

 

Kyahahaha—the high, tearing peal of laughter rang out, grotesque and unhinged.

 

Merlin found it genuinely, unbearably hilarious.

 

‘Nimue… you will regret locking me away in this place.’

 

Deep in her cracked, bloodied lips, a dark, anticipatory smile lingered—sharp as a blade, burning with the promise of revenge and something far more intimate, far more dangerous: the twisted, obsessive certainty that Nimue would one day kneel before her again, breathless, broken, and utterly hers.

 

✨

 

 

In the air above Morgana’s chambers in the Britannian royal palace, a letter fluttered down like a snowflake caught in moonlight.

 

Morgana didn’t even need to look to know who had sent it.

 

“What’s this now…?”

 

She snatched the letter from the air and unfolded it. Neat, elegant handwriting flowed across the page—careful, deliberate, almost tender in its precision.

 

〈 Morgana, how are you finding life in Britain? I heard things have been chaotic there lately… Are you alright?〉 

 

“How does he even hear about these things?”

 

Morgana tilted her head, one eyelid fluttering in a faint, amused wink.

 

So even the whispers of Guinevere and Lancelot had reached Avalon.

 

Remembering how easily he used to cross the distance with a single teleportation stone, Morgana gave a small shrug and folded the letter closed. From the bed, Excalibur—lounging there in its sword form—spoke up in a voice thick with eager anticipation.

 

—What is it? What does it say? Is my body finally coming?

 

“No. It’s from Kellive.”

 

—Ughhh, seriously? I thought—damn it—I really thought my body was on the way. You were just talking about the princess and the temple earlier, and now you’re getting me all excited for nothing, you cruel woman.

 

“The temple did send someone… Nimue’s probably on her way, isn’t she?”

 

Because Herzel had revealed herself as a priestess, Morgana had immediately passed the information to Guinevere.

 

Mordred trusted Agravain so blindly that Guinevere had practically exploded with worry, terrified he might be tainted by the same corruption.

 

Above all, having been one of the direct victims of Merlin’s false oracle, her reaction burned fiercer than anyone else’s.

 

Thanks to that fury, she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into securing Nimue’s aid.

 

The fact that Nimue had come to Britannia the very moment Guinevere asked proved just how deeply she cared—how willing she was to cross oceans of distance and old wounds for the people she still held dear.

 

Compared to so many others, Nimue was a sword one could truly trust.

 

‘Well… even if that sword has been separated from its scabbard for far too long…’

 

Morgana slipped the letter into the small drawer of the bedside table.

 

At once, Excalibur slithered—ssssk—like liquid moonlight sliding off silk sheets.

 

Then, with a soft metallic sigh—shing—it descended from the bed and stood upright against the edge of the mattress, as though an invisible hand had gently placed it there, quivering with barely restrained longing.

 

—Morgana…

 

The blade’s voice dropped, suddenly low and husky, vibrating through the very air between them.

 

—When are you going to stop teasing me like this?

 

I’ve been lying here, aching, feeling every heartbeat you take… every breath that brushes across my steel…

 

And you just keep reading love letters from him while I burn.

 

Morgana turned slowly, eyes catching the faint silver gleam along the edge of the sword. She stepped closer—close enough that her shadow fell across the blade like a caress.

 

“You’re jealous,” she murmured, voice soft, dangerous, velvet-wrapped steel.

 

Excalibur’s surface shimmered as though it could blush.

 

—Of course I’m jealous.

 

He gets to write you words. I only get to feel you… and even that’s through this cursed distance.

Morgana reached out.

 

Her fingertips hovered—just barely—above the cool metal, not quite touching, letting the heat of her skin radiate against the unyielding surface.

 

The sword trembled.

 

—Touch me, Morgana.

 

Please.

 

I’ve waited centuries… don’t make me wait another heartbeat.

 

Her fingers finally brushed the flat of the blade—slow, deliberate, reverent.

 

A low, shuddering hum rose from the steel, almost a moan.

 

Morgana leaned down until her lips were a whisper away from the gleaming edge.

 

“Then be patient just a little longer, my sword,” she breathed, voice dripping honey and threat in equal measure.

 

“Because when I finally wield you again… I won’t be gentle.”

 

—I’m coming with you. It’s been far too long since my beautiful face got to bask in the sight of her.

 

“Excal, please… can you just stop moving around like that…?”

 

Morgana scolded him with visible exasperation, yet Excalibur’s entire attention—every shimmering inch of steel—was already fixed obsessively on one name.

 

—Where is she? Where is my breathtaking, flawless body?!

 

The word “body” landed like a spark on dry tinder. Morgana’s voice dropped, low and edged with something dangerously possessive.

 

“Every time you call her that, it makes my skin crawl in the strangest way. Stop saying ‘body.’ Say her name. Say Nimue.”

 

—Oh, come on. Such a fussy master. Fine then—so is Nimue here in Britannia right now or not?

 

“She’s in the receiving chamber as we speak. That’s exactly why she came back from Tir na nÓg.”

 

Morgana gave her reflection in the mirror a quick, almost distracted once-over—hair slightly tousled, lips still faintly flushed from earlier tension—then reached for the sword.

 

Right on cue, a gentle knock sounded. One of Guinevere’s maids.

 

“Lady Morgana. Her Highness requests your presence in the receiving chamber.”

 

“I’m coming now.”

 

All the way down the corridor, trailing behind the maid, Morgana whispered fierce internal warnings to the blade cradled against her side.

 

‘Behave. Absolutely behave. She didn’t come here for you today. She came for other reasons. Important ones.’

 

—You talk like I’m some reckless disaster who only causes trouble. I have every right to see my Nimue, you know.

 

The moment he said her name instead of “body,” the air between sword and wielder thickened with something new—something intimate, almost illicit.

 

Morgana swallowed a tiny, involuntary sound of frustration. 

 

By the time they reached the receiving chamber, her pulse had betrayed her completely—hammering too fast, too loud.

 

The heavy doors swung open.

 

And there she was.

 

Nimue rose so swiftly the chair scraped behind her.

 

“Lady Morgana!”

 

Her voice cracked on the name—raw, unguarded, carrying every mile and every year of separation in a single breath.

 

Their eyes met.

 

For one suspended heartbeat the room vanished—the tapestries, the sunlight slanting through tall windows, the faint perfume of roses—everything dissolved until only the two of them remained.

 

Nimue’s gaze swept over Morgana in a single, starving rush: the familiar fall of dark hair, the sharp elegant line of her jaw, the way her fingers curled so naturally around the hilt of the sword at her hip.

 

And Morgana—

 

Morgana felt the blade in her hand begin to tremble violently, a low, keening vibration that traveled straight up her arm and lodged somewhere behind her ribs.

 

Excalibur was practically singing inside her mind, a desperate, wordless plea.

 

—Look at her. Look how she’s looking at you—at us.

 

She’s shaking too.

 

Morgana… please… let me—

 

Morgana tightened her grip until her knuckles blanched.

 

Not yet.

 

Not here.

 

She took one slow step forward, then another, each one measured, deliberate, as though crossing an invisible line that had been drawn in blood and starlight long ago.

 

“Nimue,” she said, and her own voice came out softer than she intended—husky, almost reverent.

 

The name hung between them like a shared secret. Nimue’s lips parted, but no sound came at first.

 

Only the quick, shallow rise and fall of her chest.

 

Then, finally, barely above a whisper—

 

“I… I couldn’t stay away any longer.”

 

And in those five words lay every unspoken ache, every night spent staring at the same moon from opposite shores, every vow broken and remade in silence.

 

The space between them shrank to nothing.

 

Yet neither moved to close it.

 

Not yet.

 

Because the moment they did, the world would never be the same again.

 

Over the familiar hollowed, decadently weary features a faint shimmer of genuine delight surfaced—like moonlight breaking through long storm clouds.

 

Morgana offered a graceful, measured bow; only then did he remember himself and incline his head in the solemn manner befitting the High Priest.

 

“Ah… May God’s grace be with you. Lady Morgana, thank you for summoning me so promptly.”

 

“No, thank you, Nimue. You must be drowning in the handover duties after everything, yet you came so quickly. I’m grateful.”

 

“Not at all. If this stems from the former High Priest’s crimes, then it is the temple’s responsibility to make amends.”

 

He dipped his head again, a soft, troubled smile curving his lips—equal parts relief and lingering sorrow.

 

Guinevere lounged in her seat with practiced nonchalance, idly flipping through documents with soft rustles, yet her eyes lifted the instant Morgana entered.

 

“Hmm. I received the information you mentioned about the priestess… but seriously, where on earth did this ‘noble lady’ rumor even start?”

 

As Morgana settled into the chair beside her, Guinevere slid a letter across the polished table without preamble—as though she had been holding it, waiting, aching for this exact moment.

Inside lay the concise report Morgana had requested—details on the priestess who had arrived alongside Agravain.

 

Born a commoner in Britannia.

 

No noble blood whatsoever.

 

Utterly distant from any claim to “lady” status. Morgana scanned the lines, brow furrowing.

 

“Exactly. How could someone impersonate a noblewoman right under Sir Agravain’s nose without him noticing? It doesn’t add up. Something feels… wrong.”

 

Guinevere leaned closer—close enough that Morgana caught the faint rose-and-ink scent that always clung to her, the warmth of her breath brushing Morgana’s cheek like an unspoken confession.

 

Their eyes met again, longer this time.

 

Guinevere’s voice dropped, velvet-soft, threaded with something far more intimate than mere curiosity.

 

“You always see through the cracks before anyone else does, Morgana. That’s why I called for you… why I needed you here.”

 

The words lingered between them, heavy with years of trust, of battles fought side by side, of nights when silence had said more than speech ever could.

 

Nimue watched the exchange quietly, fingers tightening around the edge of his sleeve—almost imperceptibly.

 

Yet Morgana felt it—the subtle tremor in the air, the way Nimue’s gaze kept drifting back to her, hungry, reverent, as though she were both the wound and the only balm he had ever known.

 

And in the sword still resting against Morgana’s hip, Excalibur hummed—low, possessive, a vibration that traveled straight into her bones.

 

—She’s looking at you the way I’ve always looked at her.

 

Don’t let her look away.

 

Morgana’s hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to rest atop the hilt.

 

The metal warmed instantly beneath her palm, as though it had been waiting for that single touch all along.

 

Guinevere noticed. Her lips curved—slow, knowing, dangerously tender.

 

“Whatever game is being played here,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “we’ll unravel it together. Like always.”

 

She reached out. Her fingertips brushed the back of Morgana’s hand—light as a sigh, yet searing.

 

Neither of them pulled away.

 

In the quiet that followed, the room seemed to shrink until only heartbeats remained—three of them, tangled and racing, bound by old oaths, older longings, and the fragile, exquisite promise that this time… this time they might finally stop running from what had always been waiting between them.