The room was as silent as a grave.
Blood painted the nearest wall in a wet, dripping fan. Bits of bone and fabric slid down white-painted paneling that had once hosted state dinners and glimmering receptions. A smear of something pink-grey clung to a framed portrait.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
No one breathed.
The entire room — from veteran generals and political elites to the highest aides — seemed to hold its collective breath as they processed what had just happened.
Then the screaming began.
Someone near the back — a junior aide, perhaps — choked out a strangled sound and collapsed. A senator clapped both hands over his mouth. The Vice President recoiled so hard his chair screeched across the parquet.
Guards moved by instinct.
Guns came up.
Not many.
And they soon regretted acting.
Because Mordred and Galahad reacted almost immediately — and they reacted very differently. Mordred swung Clarent through the air; the blade moved at speeds normal humans couldn't even follow, much less avoid.
Meanwhile, Galahad raised his shield in defense — though it wasn't bullets he stopped, but a shower of blood — as Mordred cut down every person who dared raise a weapon against me.
The screaming layered over itself — panic, disbelief, raw terror — until it became a single rising wail. Chairs toppled. Papers scattered. Men and women who had shaped wars stumbled backward like children escaping a house fire.
Mordred did not stop.
Her blade moved again, not out of rage but precision — a cold, surgical sweep designed to punish insolence, not slaughter the room. Every guard who had lifted a weapon fell in a single heartbeat, sliced so cleanly some didn't realize they were dead until blood began pouring down their torsos.
Galahad's shield rang as it intercepted the windblast created by her strike, ensuring no bystander was sliced apart by accident. His expression was neutral — not approval, not condemnation. Simply duty.
Steve's voice broke through the panic like a gunshot.
"MORDRED! STOP!"
She halted — not because he had authority, but because I also raised a hand, motioning for her to stop. Clarent remained in her grip, without so much as a drop of blood on it, a testament to how fast and clean her cuts had been.
Tony stared, face pale. "…Okay. That sure escalated quickly."
Natasha didn't flinch. She simply exhaled through her nose. "They drew weapons in a room with gods. They were dead the moment they moved."
Clint swallowed hard. "Still. Seeing it is… something else."
"Let's not forget the only reason they did that was because she just exploded that guy," Reed said, sounding deeply uncomfortable.
Thor stepped forward, expression dark — not angry, but heavy. "Indeed, this seems a bit too extreme. There was no need to kill them. They posed no threat."
"That's enough, brother," Loki said, slamming the bottom of Gungnir against the floor. "They failed to show proper respect before gods. Such insolence deserves punishment."
"But Loki, surely not death," Thor said, turning toward his brother.
"Enough, Thor. This is the burden of wearing the crown," Loki replied, explaining not just to Thor, but to everyone present. "One becomes more than a person — a living representative of their nation. To turn their weapons against her, against me, is to turn their weapons on Camelot and Asgard."
Thor's jaw flexed, muscles tightening beneath golden hair as he looked from Loki to me, then to the bodies on the ground. "Even so," he said carefully, "mortals cannot be judged by the standards of gods. Fear drives them to foolish deeds. We should not respond with—"
"With what?" Loki cut in, eyes gleaming, voice velvet wrapped around steel. "Consequences? Accountability?"
He swept Gungnir to gesture at the corpses, its tip leaving trails of shimmering green light in the air.
"They raised weapons at the King of Camelot — at the one who saved their city from ruin — and you would suggest what, brother? A scolding? A stern look?"
Thor stood his ground, pain flickering in his eyes. "There must be balance, Loki. Justice is not the same as slaughter."
"And mercy is not the same as weakness," Loki hissed. "These mortals forget their place. Perhaps they must be reminded."
"By killing them?" Thor's voice sharpened. "That is not justice. That is fear."
"Fear," Loki replied, leaning on Gungnir like the throne he believed he deserved, "is the only thing they understand."
Before Thor could retort, Tony inserted himself between them, hands flailing.
"Okay! Hey! Time out! Timeout!" He waved both arms. "Asgard family therapy hour can wait until AFTER we deal with the fact that we're standing in a murder zone surrounded by politicians on the verge of traumatic incontinence. Can we all just— breathe?"
Natasha muttered, "You're assuming anyone here can breathe."
Clint nodded shakily. "Yeah. Pretty sure half the room forgot how lungs work."
Bruce tugged at his collar. "Can… can we not escalate this any further? I'm not sure my heart can handle more divine executions in enclosed spaces."
Susan, pale but steady, looked sharply at me. "Your Majesty… perhaps we should proceed with the discussion part of this before the body count grows."
Reed swallowed audibly. "Yes. I second that. Strongly."
Even Ben, grim-faced and gripping his chair hard enough to dent it, muttered, "Yeah, doll… this is gettin' a little too Grimm for my taste."
Steve stepped forward. Not aggressively. Not challenging. Simply present — placing himself directly between me and the trembling remains of the U.S. government.
"Arthuria," he said quietly, voice firm but imploring. "This isn't the way. If you want the truth — if you want justice — you have it. But this? This only makes them panic. Panicked people don't tell the truth. They break."
His blue eyes held mine.
"I know you're angry. You have every right to be."
He didn't bow.
He didn't challenge.
He simply stood — the very image of a shield rather than a sword.
"Let us question them," Steve continued. "Let us handle this part. If they lie… you'll know. If they stall… you'll know. So please…"
He took a careful breath.
"Let us de-escalate."
Loki scoffed, rolling his eyes so hard the motion was practically audible. "Of course Rogers wants to de-escalate. If a demon invaded his home, he'd probably invite it to tea."
Steve didn't even look at him. "At least I'd get answers."
Thor rumbled, "Brother, enough."
Loki leaned back with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. But when these mortals inevitably soil themselves and beg for mercy, do not blame me for the mess."
Tony pointed at Loki. "Please don't help."
Mordred bristled beside me. "Father, say the word and I'll finish what they started. Disrespect cannot go unanswered."
"You answered it," Clint muttered, staring at the carnage. "Pretty hard."
"Yeah, Mordred," Sir Ector added. "That's enough. Let's leave the rest to them."
She huffed, but lowered Clarent a fraction.
All eyes turned back to me.
Yet before I had a chance to speak, someone knocked on the door behind us.
A knock.
In a room filled with blood, divine fury, political terror, and trembling mortals desperate not to be noticed—
someone actually knocked.
Every head snapped toward the doors.
Thor exhaled heavily, grateful for the interruption.
Tony, Steve, Bruce — many others felt the same relief.
The knocking was calm and unhurried, granting the room a momentary reprieve.
A Secret Service agent — one of the few still alive — stumbled toward the door, his hand shaking violently.
"I—I'm sorry, this room is sealed—there's no one supposed to—"
He opened it.
A wheelchair rolled in.
And the tense, nervous elite calmed further as it entered. Many who had been standing sat down, as if the stress and fear had been drained from them.
Professor Charles Xavier entered with the ease of a man stepping into a quiet lecture hall rather than a massacre. His hands rested peacefully on the sides of his chair, his expression solemn but unwavering.
He did not look afraid.
He did not look impressed.
He looked… sad.
"Pardon the interruption."
His voice carried gently across the room, yet landed with the force of a hammer on glass.
"Your Majesty. Ladies and gentlemen. I felt it would be… irresponsible not to intervene."
I shook my head. "You were invited to speak on behalf of the mutants who aided us — Logan, Nightcrawler, and the twins who helped Banner and Grimm."
"Ah," Loki arched a brow. "This is the famous telepath? The one who believes in peace despite knowing that all he speaks to wish for war?"
"Sounds like a right fool to me," Mordred murmured.
"Be nice," Gawain whispered, though none of my knights said her words were wrong.
After all, since I had joined hands with Magneto early on, his words were the ones they knew. His vision of the past had become truth.
Charles was a fool — someone who bartered for peace, hoped for it dearly, but was unwilling to spill blood for his ideals.
To my knights, that was something they could not understand. Noble they might be, but they came from a time where war was how things were done.
To save people, you went to war. You killed others.
It was a cruel reality — but they understood it.
They knew minds could not always be changed. Often it was not a clash of ideals, but of interests — and interests could not be reasoned away.
When one group's interests threatened another's, there could be no talk.
Charles should have known that.
Yet he chose to close his eyes to that truth, believing humanity could move beyond such barbaric ways.
It was a beautiful belief.
My Saber self — my more noble, ideal version — would have supported him.
But my Ruler and Lancer aspects looked down on such things.
Kill when you must.
Show mercy when you can.
Never let mortals run wild.
A god knows best.
And enjoy every moment.
Though… I was quite bad at that last one. Being a king and ruler of a nation meant I had far too much work to enjoy myself as my summer origins would have liked.
Charles Xavier's gaze swept the room — the blood, the corpses, the trembling elite, the knights, the Avengers—
—and finally, me.
"Your Majesty," he said again, dipping his head.
I inclined mine in return — acknowledgment, not equality.
Thor frowned slightly. "This one commands much… presence. Yet he bears no weapon."
"He doesn't need one," Tony murmured. "His weapon's his brain."
"Like you? Or is your weapon your suits?" Thor asked, his honesty making Tony falter.
"More like he'll make you fall asleep standing, pass out, or just make your body walk away without you," Tony replied.
Charles folded his hands in his lap, unbothered by gods, knights, or royalty.
"I apologize for the intrusion," he said, "but I felt it necessary to speak before this conversation loses any remaining civility."
Reed muttered, "Civility left the building around the same time the Secret Service did…"
"Reed," Susan hissed.
Xavier continued, turning to the assembled leaders.
"I am here, as Her Majesty stated, to speak for the mutant community who aided in the defense of New York. For Logan. For Kurt Wagner. For the twins. For every mutant who risked their life to protect a country that has not always protected them."
He paused.
"And for those who will no doubt be blamed for what happened, regardless of their actions."
A ripple of shame — or fear — spread through the political elite.
Thor crossed his arms, confused. "Mutants? These are the… Midgardians with strange gifts?"
"Yes," Xavier said softly. "Though many think of them only as threats."
Loki's expression sharpened. "As they do with all who possess power they cannot control."
Charles met Loki's eyes without flinching. "And yet some of us choose not to rule with that power."
A dangerous silence followed.
Mordred bristled. "Hmph. A weakling's creed."
"Mordred," Gawain whispered again.
I raised a hand, quieting them.
To give Charles room.
To see what he would do.
To see which side he would choose.
(End of chapter)
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