Modred hung forward in the chains.
His head was bowed, breath shallow, eyes dull and unfocused. Blood had dried along his face, crusted at his lips and chin. Every muscle in his body ached, but he barely registered it.
Lysara shuffled closer, each step stiff with pain. Her body trembled as she crouched beside him, bruised and barely holding herself upright.
"Modred," she said softly.
No response.
She swallowed hard and spoke again, closer this time.
"Get it together."
Slowly, his eyes lifted to her.
They were empty.
"Why," he asked hoarsely,
"did things have to be this way?"
His voice cracked.
"All that training," he continued. "All that talk. All those promises."
His jaw tightened.
"Was it all for nothing?"
Lysara froze.
Her lips parted—but nothing came out.
Her hands curled into fists as her shoulders began to tremble. Tears slid down her face silently, her gaze dropping to the ground.
She couldn't answer.
Modred stared at her.
Something inside him collapsed.
Before he could speak again—
Riven moved.
Because of the chains, he couldn't grab him. Couldn't pull him close.
So he did the only thing he could.
He slammed his forehead straight into Modred's face.
The impact snapped Modred's head back violently. Pain exploded behind his eyes as he sucked in a sharp breath, dazed.
"What the hell—" Modred rasped.
Riven leaned forward, their foreheads nearly touching again, voice low and furious.
"Are you done?" Riven snapped. "Or you planning to keep whining until you rot?"
Modred blinked, stunned.
Riven didn't let up.
"You got beaten half to death," he said. "So what?"
His voice was harsh, cutting.
"You think crying about it changes anything?"
Modred stared at him.
Riven continued, teeth clenched.
"Cut the moaning. Cut the bullshit."
He exhaled sharply.
"You think the royals decide whether you reach your goal?"
Riven shook his head.
"No matter what they say. No matter what they planned."
His eyes burned.
"You still said you'd win."
Silence stretched between them.
Modred's breathing slowed.
"…My goal," he muttered.
Riven nodded once.
"There it is."
The memory hit Modred without warning.
Him standing on a table at the party before the Rite—drink raised, voice loud, reckless, burning.
Even if they try to stop me, he'd said.
I'll still win the goddamn Rite.
His jaw clenched.
Something hardened behind his eyes.
Modred's breath caught.
Then—
He laughed.
A short, broken sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it.
Riven flinched.
"Enough," Modred said.
His voice was steadier now.
Modred lifted his head, blood trailing down his jaw.
"…Thanks," he said.
Riven frowned. "For what?"
"For snapping me out of it," Modred replied. "I was losing my head."
He shifted his gaze — slow, deliberate — to both of them.
"That," he continued, "won't happen again."
Silence hung heavy.
Modred inhaled once.
"…And don't mistake this," he said. "I'm not proud of what you just saw."
His eyes flicked briefly to Lysara.
"Sorry," he said flatly. "Both of you. For showing something that weak."
Something changed.
The air around them grew heavier.
Modred's eyes lifted fully now, green darkening, sharpening—conviction settling in behind them like a locked blade.
"I don't care what he said," Modred said.
"I don't care what the royals planned."
His jaw tightened.
"I said I'd win."
Heat rolled outward.
The temperature rose.
"Brace yourselves," he said calmly.
Flame Arcana surged.
The chains binding him glowed faintly before cracking apart. He burned through the ones binding Lysara and Riven next, severing them cleanly.
He stood straight for the first time since the beating.
Blood ran from his face.
His eyes burned with resolve.
"I'll finish this," he said quietly.
"And I'll do it my way."
"Riven," Modred said. "Take care of her. Make sure she heals properly."
Before Riven could respond—
A violent explosion echoed through the forest.
The ground trembled.
Smoke rose in the distance.
Division Four's direction.
Modred turned toward it.
He smirked.
Arthur found him moments later.
He stopped when he saw Modred's face—bruised, split, swollen nearly beyond recognition.
"What happened?" Arthur asked.
Modred tilted his head slightly.
"…Didn't know you cared about my face."
Arthur sighed.
"We'll talk later," he said firmly. "Right now—move."
His tone shifted.
"Lysara's badly injured."
Before Modred could respond, Riven emerged carrying her in his arms and handed her over without a word.
Arthur turned to leave.
Riven's grip tightened around his halberd.
"We're going to pay those bastards a visit," he said, voice shaking with anger.
Modred grinned.
"Marcel is mine," he said. "You can have Four eyes."
Arthur looked at them, confused.
"…Don't do anything stupid," he said.
Then he was gone.
The explosions swallowed the sound of his steps.
Modred and Riven turned back toward the camp headquarters of Division 2.