(from the observations of Morgan le Fay)
There are always cracks in a kingdom.
Even when the walls are made of glass.
From my vantage in the veil, I see Arthur's empire glittering beneath the night—Avalon Legacy, his newest Camelot. Steel and light where stone and fire once stood. He speaks of progress now: of energy, renewal, unity. The words have changed, but the pattern remains the same.
He builds a table again, though he no longer calls it that.
He gathers his knights beneath new banners, not of lions and dragons, but of corporate emblems and digital crests. Yet I can already see the fissures forming—the familiar shadows behind the loyalty in their eyes.
One of them dreams of redemption.
Another of glory.
One, the oldest wound of all, dreams of love lost and loyalty broken.
Lancelot's soul stirs, caught once more between crown and conscience.
And in the corners of the world Arthur does not watch, old magics whisper again. Forgotten orders light candles in my name. They mistake my silence for sanction. They think I guide them, but I do not. I only observe.
This is how every age begins:
with light too bright to notice its own reflection.
And every age ends the same way—
with a map drawn in shadows.
Arthur looks at his city and sees hope.
I look at it and see memory repeating itself in glass.
He calls it legacy.
I call it the next fall.