CHAPTER 55: WHAT ARTHUR WOULD WEEP TO SEE

He felt... calm.

Not fully. Not completely.

But much calmer than he did the last few days.

The rage that had burned in him for days—it was quiet now.

Still there, buried somewhere deep within.

But it’s no longer clawing to get out.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the silence.

Maybe it was the weight of everything finally settling down.

Or maybe... he was just too tired to stay angry.

But even now, with his hands still, his mind quiet—

His chest ached.

Every time he tried to remember what he’d lost...

It hurt.

Not a sharp pain. Not one that made him cry out.

Just that kind of ache that sits deep within your body.

The kind that reminds you something’s missing.

Something important.

He closed his eyes.

But sleep didn’t come easy.

Not the kind of sleep that healed you.

Just something shallow. Like drifting in water that’s too dark to see through.

Every time his mind wandered, it came back to the same place.

A face he couldn’t remember.

A voice he almost recognized.

A feeling—warm, distant, gone.

He wanted to hold onto it.

He tried.

But the more he reached, the more it slipped away.

Still... he didn’t fight it.

He didn’t run from the ache.

Because that ache meant it was real.

That what he lost had mattered.

And one day, he would remember what he had lost.

Later that day, neither Lucian nor Queen Lisa shed many tears.

Not because they didn’t care.

But because the grief had already happened.

They had mourned the moment he left.

The moment they realized he wasn’t coming back.

This... was just the final step.

The funeral was quiet.

Ana stood beside the cart the whole time, next to her father’s lifeless body.

Her eyes didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t cry.

She just stared forward.

Like her soul had stopped with his.

She carried the weight.

Still does.

She blames herself—even if no one says it.

Even when Sylas and others try to tell her it’s not true.

She believes it anyway.

And belief... is heavier than truth.

After the burial, Sylas approached Lucian.

He didn’t say much.

Just handed him the gloves—the relic taken from Greed.

Still warm with power.

Still humming softly with that twisted, pulsing hunger.

"A gift," he said.

Lucian accepted them without a word.

Something passed between them—unspoken.

A kind of understanding only survivors carry.

Later that day, the ceremony began.

Queen Lisa stood tall beneath the midday sun, the crown of Vortania in her hands.

No trembling.

No hesitation.

She passed it to Lucian.

And with that, the line changed.

The people cheered.

Drums beat.

Music filled the streets like rain hitting dry stone.

They called him king.

But Sylas went away from them, leaning against the balcony where he first had a conversation with King Kael about the kingdoms.

"Don’t worry, Sir Kael. I will guide your son to become a great king... like how a man taught me."

His mind went back to Merlin—the way he guided him to become the person he is.

Then, as the music rose again, he moved.

Ana stood quietly at the edge of the crowd, her hands clasped in front of her, like she didn’t belong there.

He walked over without a word.

She looked up—just barely.

She didn’t expect him.

Her face was pale, broken.

Sylas had forgotten her smile. He hadn’t seen it in a while.

He held out a hand with a soft smile.

"Hello there, beautiful. How about a dance?"

Not because it was expected.

Not because it would fix anything.

But because, for once, he didn’t want her to carry it alone.

That man had trusted him with his daughter.

And Sylas wasn’t going to break that trust.

Not while his body still moved.

Not while he could still stand.

He wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

He would not let her feel pain. No sorrow.

As long as he was breathing—

She wouldn’t face any of it alone.

And when the day came when he could no longer protect her...

Even then—

He’d find a way.

Even if it meant reaching back from death itself.

She hesitated at first.

But then placed her hand in his with a small smile.

Sylas could tell she forced it.

They stepped onto the floor as the music changed.

Soft. Slow. Like when they first met.

This time, her face was pressed against his chest.

But she danced.

The next day Sylas wanted to return with his father. He figured it was time to stop riding bathtubs and get an actual ship.

Something with sails.

Something that didn’t leak.

He stood by the docks, the waves hitting the wood below, and just as he was about to step onto the ship, he heard footsteps behind him—slow, steady, and impossible to ignore.

Ana was there.

She wasn’t alone.

Her mother, Queen Lisa, walked beside her.

Lucian followed a few steps behind.

"She wants to go with you," the queen said gently.

Her voice held no weight, no pressure.

Just quiet understanding.

A small smile formed on her lips—the kind only a mother could wear in a moment like this.

Sylas looked at Ana.

"You know I’m going to every nation," he said. "You won’t be able to see them for a while."

He paused.

"You okay with that?"

Ana didn’t respond.

She didn’t nod.

She didn’t shake her head.

She just stepped forward and walked past him—straight onto the ship.

Without any hesitation.

Queen Lisa pulled him into a hug.

It wasn’t formal.

It wasn’t royal.

It was warm.

"Protect her," she said quietly.

Sylas smiled—not out of habit, but because he meant it.

"Don’t worry. She’ll be safe... until my last breath."

Lucian stood nearby.

His face didn’t match the moment.

Confused, maybe. Suspicious, even.

Like he didn’t fully understand what he meant.

But the queen did.

She looked at Sylas, eyes steady, and said nothing more.

He waved them goodbye and followed Ana up the ship’s ramp, the sea wind brushing past him.

Days passed quietly.

He spent them at her side—watching the waves, saying little.

Just being there.

But when night fell, he found his father.

The stars were out.

The ship rocked gently beneath them.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then Sylas broke the silence.

His voice wasn’t loud.

But it was sharp.

Precise.

Like he was holding a blade to his father’s throat.

"Why were you late?"

King Richard didn’t flinch.

"I didn’t receive your letter until later that night."

Sylas tilted his head slightly.

"Because?"

The king stayed quiet.

But Sylas already knew.

"It was her."

Richard said nothing.

His silence spoke for him.

"I see."

Sylas pushed back his chair and stepped toward the door.

He didn’t raise his voice.

But his words pressed like weight against the air.

"This is my last warning."

His red eyes burned faintly—gold flickering at the edges.

"If she doesn’t stop playing her games..."

He let the words settle.

"I will not hesitate to cut her down."

His father didn’t speak.

But his hand moved—slow, tense.

It hovered near the hilt of his sword.

Tightened.

Just enough to show he heard.

Just enough to say don’t.

Sylas saw it.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Just looked him in the eye...

And kept going.

"If you get in my way..."

He stopped just before the door.

"For that moment... I will forget you’re my father."

He was doing everything he once despised.

Everything he said he’d never become.

Using power as a threat.

Letting fear speak in place of reason.

Holding authority like a blade to the world’s throat.

It made him sick.

But he kept doing it.

Because deep down, he knew—he was running out of time.

The more the days slipped by, the more panic built in his chest.

Quiet. Slow. Always there.

He was fighting the clock.

Fighting the prophecy.

Fighting himself.

King Arthur would never have done this.

Arthur believed in trust.

In diplomacy.

In peace through unity.

But Sylas... Sylas is willing to go as far as tear kingdoms apart just to put them back together under his own rule.

He isn’t trying guiding the world.

He is forcing it to follow.

Not after what he saw.

And it was killing him.

Every order he gave, every threat he made, every show of power—

It all chipped away at what little of Arthur was left inside him.

But he had no choice.

Because if he didn’t finish this—if he failed to unite the nations and seal all the gate before his time ran out—

Then all of it would’ve been for nothing.

The world would burn.

Ana would suffer.

Elizabeth would be left alone, carrying his burden.

So he kept going.

Even if it meant burying his own ideology.

Even if it meant becoming everything he once stood against.

Because peace was no longer a dream.

It was a deadline.

And he would reach it—no matter what had to be sacrificed along the way.

It was not for himself.

But to keep them safe.

Even if it meant becoming the kind of king Arthur would have wept to see.