“WHAT. HAPPENED?!”

King Lysandus stared down at the one-armed Lightborn who had appeared before him in the dead of night to explain, in quite an uncouth manner, that he should be evacuating his city before the dawn.

The guards had done nothing to stop him from barging into the King's bedroom and demanding that he get dressed quickly - telling him that he'd have much work to do before the dawning of the new day.

And Lysandus, king of Westerweald, was about ready to snap back before he saw the fury that colored Artorious's eyes. Every citizen of the city had slept well tonight - seeing that the Archon's bounty was no more. And yet here the Lightborn was, bloody as a newborn babe, raging around like some rampaging bear in the palace.

When he then explained what had slain one hundred men of the Grenbelm forest militia and left at least fifty others broken and bloody on the forest floor, the King didn’t exactly take it well.

“You are telling me that you let the Archon escape? That it’s back and… you could not slay it?”

“I am telling you what I saw,” Artorious replied without a single flinch.

“…What does that mean? If the Lightborn cannot harm it, then… can it even be killed?”

Artorious's eyes flared up at the question, and King Lysandus suddenly found that it was he who shuddered, almost squeezing his back into the stone of his grand throne itself to escape from the Lightborn's piercing sapphire eyes - the same eyes worn by the angel that Kaedmon had sent them in the first century.

“I will ride to Caer Krea within the night and assemble the surviving Greycloaks,” Artorious replied stiffly. “We must confer and come up with a battle plan going forward. These matters are fit only to be discussed among those of the Order, you understand. In the meantime, it is my firm recommendation that you order your guards to assist in the evacuation of the capital.”

The King’s eyes bulged at this upstart man, desparate to regain some sense of his regal composure. “Y-you do not give commands here, Greycloak! Especially not when you have failed to do the one thing you’re good for!”

“Your Kingdom is in danger, sire,” Artorious replied coolly, causing a few guards to turn away from him lest the King order them to attack. All of them knew the prowess of the Lightborn—even one-handed, he had slain thousands of creatures of the dark. And when the chips were down, they weren't about to throw their lives away for Lysandus. Not by a long shot.

“D-Do you even understand what you’re asking?!” the King roared, red-faced and bumbling with embarrassment, half-dressed in bed-robes not exactly suited for the court. “You’re asking me to admit that we failed. That… that we can’t protect the people. You think I will suffer the same fate as my fathers, Artorious? No. I shall do no such thing. We will stay right here, Artorious. And you will stay beside me.”

The old warrior grimaced. “King Lysandus, you are making this exceedingly difficult.”

“I don’t care what you think, commoner!” he screamed back, the word dripping from his tongue like venom. “You will do your duty and protect your King in the event of an attack!”

“No,” he answered. “I will not.”

Silence reigned in the palace throne room then, broken only by the stuttered breaths of the guards who watched this whole spectacle with awestruck eyes. None of them dared cast a single glance in their speechless king's direction.

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“…What did you say to me?”

“My duty is to this land and its people,” Artorious answered. “I will do what I feel must be done. I will ride for Caer Krea tonight and contact the other Greycloaks. Together we will take the fight to this Archon and its hybrid minions, with or without your help.”

With that, the old warrior bowed stiffly and took his leave, his footsteps echoing down the grim hall of the pale throne room as he went.

“Pray that this Archon remains a fledgling,” he told the King over his shoulder before he left the throne room proper. “For if it should truly gain a foothold in Westerweald, the entire continent will follow.”

The King could barely even stay seated. He looked to his guards and saw no compulsion to stop the old hero in them. And he began to learn just how powerless he really was.

“W-what?!” was all he could stutter.

“Most men of this world do not remember what occurred in the time of Archon Gyko,” Artorious said grimly. “I was there.”

The King smarted, blustering, murmuring curses under his breath, catching the nervous eyes of his palace guard, who quickly shifted their gazes as he swept his over them.

Then finally, he stood and shouted after the departing man.

“You think your Brothers and Sisters will welcome you back with open arms!?” he yelled like a miserable child. “They hate you, Artorious! Hell if I know why—but they hate you! You walk out that door, you lose the only friend you have left in this entire world!”

Sir Artorious Pendragon didn’t falter. He walked right out the palace front gates without a single look back. The people of the capital rushed to greet him as he walked, and only when they came close enough to see his grim face did they relent. There was darkness etched in those wrinkled eyes that seemed more monstrous than the beasts they feared would come in the night.

Children looked from the alleys they played in and saw him departing—some running to simply bask in his presence as he marched right through the city gates without even acknowledging them. Their hopeful eyes were not what he needed to see right now.

What the king said was true, though Artorious was loathe to admit it: his former compatriots would never simply accept him back with vows of friendship on their lips. His exile had been long - an isolation felt more keenly than the tip of any blade - but Greycloaks didn't forget the transgressions of their Order members. Especially not when the member in question was the Lightborn themselves. The fact that they hadn't already come for him was a telling sign that perhaps they thought the situation didn't yet warrant the attention of the Order.

And yet, as he saddled his horse in the Lucent stables and looked up at the imposing sight of Caer Krea in the high mountains beyond the city, glowering down on all of them like an ever watchful sentinel, he began to have a different thought:

Commander Argent probably knew he would come to them, now. Probably, she wanted to wait for his return. Maybe even watch him beg for help.

She'd be disappointed on that front.

The thought followed Artorious as he set out on the King's road, buffeted by the torrential rain that had suddenly descended on Westerweald ever since the Archon's flight from its forest lair. His vacant arm socket still ached from the memory of the battle - the memory of holding the damned demon in his hands and watching it slip away in the filthy claws of hybrids. A whole team of them just waiting for the moment to make this world a worse place to live in.

He'd remember their faces just like he'd remember the stupid form of the hat. Once the Archon was finally dead and buried, he'd come for them, too.

For that was the destiny baked into his spirit - the soul of the Lightborn that burned as bright as the angel that had first given mankind a hope in the dark. And it was that very same spirit that he had failed when he plunged his sword into Gyko's breast and didn't follow her to the grave. It was that same spirit that told him, then, that his duty would haunt him for the remainder of his life.

Because he remembered what the bitch had said as she died, purple blood frothing from her thorny lips:

"...see you in the next life...Lightborn..."

Artorious closed his eyes as he drove his horse onward. Thoughts of his failure were not what he needed right now. Thoughts of Krea were not what he needed now. Thoughts of the people of this world counting on him were not what he needed right now. And thoughts of the slovenly king he'd wasted his time with for the past few years were certainly not what he needed, even if the old bastard's words still reverberated off his subconsciousness:

They hate you, Artorious! Hell if I know why—but they hate you! You walk out that door, you lose the only friend you have left in this entire world!

He gripped his horse's reigns as he forced it forward into the night.

I don’t need friends, he thought as he felt the rain smack against his scarred face. What I need is an army.