Life has been - relatively - peaceful since our return from the quest.

Surprisingly so, as, by hook or by crook, the events of our journey led to a number of succession crises amongst the remaining British kingdoms that winter.

Gwent had transitioned to King Maelgwyn in a reasonably smooth manner. Who knew, but it seemed that when you dedicated yourself to plotting revenge for twenty years, there were aspects of governmental administration that fell by the wayside. That the new king was interested in actually ruling rather than secret blood-feuding made things a bit easier for him. Most importantly, as far as we were concerned, Dumnonia's connection to the kingdoms across the Severn was secure. At least for the time being.

Unfortunately, that was pretty much where the good news about the other kingdoms dried up. Mark fucked off the second the last of his men found their way back to Tintagel. We weren't left quite in 'executing all our messengers' incommunicado, but neither were Arthur and he regularly swapping baking tips. Mind you, at least he'd reconfirmed his support for Arthur in front of witnesses, and with Maelgwyn on board - and no one else alive to dissent - there was now a very snazzy red dragon flying above Tintagel again.

The news from Powys and Dehuebarch, though, was less than ideal. Corys was still not back from his shagathon, and his kingdom had descended into a very uncivil civil war. Arthur had expressed no preference as to which of his sons we wanted to come out on top but earnestly wished they would get themselves sorted out before the campaign season against the Saxons opened in earnest. As far as I could tell, though, I doubted there were likely to be many able-bodied spearmen up for what was coming.

Of Powys we heard nothing, and our messengers were returned without their heads. Lancelot had offered to attend to the matter 'personally', but we'd all agreed that it might be wise to let some time pass before renewing diplomatic relations. After all, "Sorry we let goblins eat your king" was not the strongest of opening gambits . . .

Winter had come, buying us all some much-needed respite from the incessant fighting that had marked my time thus far in the Dark Ages. I enjoyed taking the opportunity to round out some of my skills and to spend much longer in meditation. Which was why I was standing on the roof of my tower, freezing my tits off. Merlin had said it was good for my resilience or something. I think he just liked seeing my nipples turn into bullets.

My dear!

Given the weather, it was somewhat surprising to hear the noise of training coming from the courtyard below. But, then again, considering who was doubtless down there, it probably shouldn't. Lancelot's Rangers had become a 'thing' with all of the original survivors signing up, alongside a fair number of those who attended the Grand Tournament. If Arthur was concerned about the commitment a large section of his elite warriors were showing to someone who wasn't him, he didn't mention it.

At least not to me.

Mind you, Arthur Pendragon was not exactly lacking in men flocking to his banner. I was secretly pleased to hear a few names I recognised from stories. There's no easy way to tell someone you've just met that you've heard all about them and they're ballers in the future, but I've done my best to pull it off with subtlety and flair.

You spectacularly embarrassed them, my dear. Especially Galahad. No one needs to know they are one of the most famous virgins in history.

I ignored him

Due to the success of the tournament, the coffers of Tintagel were now overflowing, and a fuckton of money was sunk into gearing Arthur's men up for the spring. I tried to find out from Bors the secret to making quite so much cash out of what I assumed would have been a money pit, but he'd just shrugged. From Guinevere, I'd heard that the two weeping merchants I'd seen leave the castle had been responsible for the epic financial success of the venture. From what we could ascertain, they'd taken no payment for their hard work and - bizarrely - seemed to have self-funded a considerable amount of the event at their loss. They'd oddly fled in terror from Bors when he'd been to see them to 'discuss their bill'—strange pair.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Speaking of Guinevere . . .

Finally, some good news. One of the little-known side-effects of wearing Caeldfwch's scabbard at his waist was to repair whatever damage Drynwyn had caused Arthur's love juice. It's been mentioned I have somewhat of a hard heart, but even I felt a little flutter of happiness at a very undignified "I'M PREGNANT!" coming from the Queen's chamber shortly after the old witch, Nimue, made her customary post-coital examination.

Unfortunately, that led to a slightly awkward few days after it became clear that King Leodegrance's dowry of 'ten thousand spears' might have been a touch hyperbolic. When three hundred horsemen of dubious quality showed up, it was hard not to feel a bit disappointed. I mean, everyone was welcome to the anti-Saxon party, but it put an ever-so-slight black cloud over what should have been a time of joy.

"We don't have enough men."

Bors had taken to joining me in mediation on the roof of Merlin's tower. He was slowly recovering from his injuries but was walking far more stiffly than I remembered. Guinevere thought he wanted to work on his recovery away from Lancelot and Arthur, but I was fairly sure he was on Team Merlin when it came to gawping at my frost-enhanced ladies.

Honestly, my dear . . .

"You say that every day, mate," I answered Bors. "And I still say you are being pessimistic."

"We've narrowly fought back armies at our gates twice in the last six months. I don't think it happened once in the last century. Do you think we've got a third siege in us?"

"I think we've fought off Saxons, wyverns, goblins, demonic cultivators, magical forests and giant fucking sea monsters. The smart money is on us in any confrontation."

Bors sat up a bit straighter and winced at the pain in his back. "He's talking about going on the offensive in the spring. Of taking the fight to the Saxons. He wants to cross the Tamar."

I didn't need to ask who 'he' was.

"I've heard worse ideas. Get us out into Saxon territories. Kick ass and take names. Do what we do best. Could be interesting."

"I worry it's all too fragile. We were in the best shape we'd ever been before Isca fell. Merlin, armies, allies, strongholds. We had it all, and it felt like there was a sense of destiny behind what we were about to achieve. I look at us now, and it feels like we're always one battle away from a wipeout. It scares me that it will only take one bad call, one strategic error, and that could be it. I can't comprehend stakes like that. I worry that we'll oversee the genocide of the British from these islands."

I worried that the big lug had learned the concept of 'genocide.' But I decided not to take offence at the unflattering comparison. Everyone knew I was doing my best, but clearly I wouldn't be Merlin anytime soon.

"This isn't like you, mate. You okay?"

Bors puffed out his cheeks. "Mrs Bors is pregnant again."

I high-fived him. "You and Arthur are both going to be daddies at the same time! That's so cool!"

"It just makes you think . . ." I thought that was it, but - after a few moments - he continued. "I never knew my own dad, you know? He died fighting the Saxons before I was born. I always promised myself that my kids wouldn't grow up like that."

A billion jokes lined up in my head to break the dark mood that was settling on us. But I couldn't make any of them come out.

Because, in a month or so, the Saxons would be coming.

And we weren't ready.

I stared out over the mist, letting my Qi run up and down my body. Despite everything, it seemed that we'd managed to keep the timeline intact. By hook or by crook, Arthur Pendragon sat on the throne of Tintagel, Guinevere at his side and with his Knights of the Round Table close at hand. It wasn't exactly all over bar the shouting, but I could feel the pull of the vision I had experienced in the Enchanted Forest.

Arthur, mortally wounded, on the field of Carleon. As goals went, it hardly felt like I was shooting for a happy ending.

What will be, must be, my dear. Should we live to witness the fall of Arthur to Mordred's blade, you will have done everything that could possibly be asked of you. What you do at that stage is entirely down to you.

I didn't answer him. The second part of that vision had me choose whether to take Arthur to Avalon or abandon him and return to my own world. Or, at least, a version of that where I was a functioning, happy person.

Fuck.

"Don't borrow trouble, lovely" my sister's voice echoed in my head. "You can only do one thing at a time. Cross that bridge when you get there, and don't burn it down on your way there!" Well, if that was true, then there were a fuckton of Saxons standing in the middle of that bridge.

"You okay?" Bors asked, concern in his voice.

I shook my head, tears spilling from my eyes. "No. Not at all. But you know what's going to be just the ticket for that?"

"Killing Saxons?"

"Fucking A."

It was going to be a bloody Spring.