MMMS 102

When she was fifteen, Morgan was like a fairy by the lakeside—basking under the spring sun, straight out of a storybook. No worries, no doubts. Only curiosity for the unknown, and hope for tomorrow.

Morgan was the daughter of the great King Uther, who had unified the scattered tribes of Britain and ushered in an age of peace unseen in a century. Even the ancient superpower that once sheltered the British Isles—Rome—couldn't compare to the vibrant prosperity of Uther's kingdom. Everyone's eyes sparkled with hope. Everything was progressing, building toward something greater. Morgan, the princess of Britain, was born and raised in that golden age.

At Morgan's coming-of-age ceremony, her teacher approached the throne. She bowed low, then straightened. "Your Majesty, the island itself has chosen Her Highness. She's already surpassed her mother and learned everything I can teach her." she paused, glancing at Morgan with something like wonder. "If she one day exceeds both myself and even her ancestor... well, I wouldn't be surprised."

Even the arrogant, flighty court mage couldn't stop singing her praises.

From that day on, the people began to call her—

Morgan le Fay.

And it was also on that day that Morgan declared her dream. She stepped closer to the throne, chin raised. "Father, I want to become a great king like you—one who will build a Britain even more prosperous than now."

"I see..." Uther's voice from the throne was cold. The magus standing at his side lowered her eyes, something like grief flickering across her face.

Morgan had always sensed it—even as a child.

Her father didn't love her.

Strictly speaking, witches were not supposed to bear children with humans. While the term "witch" could mean a female mage, the true meaning referred to a race apart from mankind—fairy-like beings who had assimilated into human society.

Witches and humans who bore children together were cursed. No one, no matter how powerful, could escape that fate. Morgan's birth came at the cost of the Queen's life. Even if she had been born with her mother's love, the death of the Queen had left a wound too deep for those who remained.

Uther, once a wise and devoted ruler, became increasingly volatile after that.

If only that were the end of it...

But Morgan grew more beautiful and more brilliant than her mother had ever been. By thirteen, she was already second only to Merlin in the entire kingdom in terms of magical prowess. Tales of her beauty spread across the land and even reached far-off France, prompting an endless stream of suitors and imperial nobles.

But none of it brought comfort to Uther. To a king still trapped in grief, her brilliance was not a gift—it was a painful reminder. Was all that talent something she just ripped from his wife?

"...But it doesn't matter." Back then, Morgan wasn't disheartened by her father's coldness. Her mother had loved her. The island had chosen her. Even the arcane mysteries bent to her will.

"I'll just work harder. I'll take Britain from Father and make it shine even brighter than before. When that happens, he'll have to recognize me. And Mother... Mother will be proud of me too."

The girl was bright, optimistic, and wholeheartedly chasing her dream of becoming queen.

Then, when Morgan was twelve, her sister was born.

Her name was Artoria Pendragon.

Unlike Morgan, she had inherited Uther's golden hair. She was a lovely baby.

Morgan knelt beside the cradle, reaching out to gently poke the infant's chubby cheeks. "Hey there, Artoria. I'm your big sister." She turned to the court mage beside her with a curious tilt of her head. "Merlin, who's her mother? I mean... where did she even come from?"

"Hmm?" Merlin scratched at her multicolored bangs, that familiar mischievous smile playing on her lips. "Oh, you know... here and there. These things just sort of... happen sometimes! Ahaha..."

"Hmm, wait a second..." Morgan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Don't tell me... you're the mother?!"

"What?! Of course not!"

"You totally are! You seduced Father while I wasn't looking!" Morgan pointed an accusing finger. "That's why you disappeared for months! You weren't off on some 'important magical research'—you were having a baby!"

Bonk. Merlin's staff connected solidly with Morgan's head.

"Ow!" Morgan rubbed the spot, grinning. "Well, whatever. This kid's way too cute to be yours anyway."

"How rude! For your information, I happen to be quite charming when I want to be!"

"Sure, maybe in like... a thousand years?" Morgan giggled, then turned back to gaze at the baby with soft eyes. "She's so tiny... Hey, Artoria, hurry up and grow big, okay? Your big sister's gonna teach you everything."

At twelve, Morgan still had no idea what her sister's birth would mean for her future. To her, Artoria's arrival was just one more reason to work even harder.

She buried herself in her studies, diving deep into magecraft, sacrificing sleep and meals to refine her craft. She cared for her baby sister with love, pouring everything she had into her duties as princess.

And then... At the end of her fifteenth year, Morgan's springtime came to an abrupt end.

It began with the fall of the Empire. Rome, the giant that had ruled Europe for centuries, began to crumble under the weight of barbarian invasions. Waves of foreign tribes crossed the channel and descended on Britain—bringing fire and war to the island.

But that was only the beginning. Without warning, Britain's ancient mysteries began to fade. The soil grew barren. Seeds refused to sprout. Trees bore no fruit. Internal unrest. Foreign invaders. A king who no longer cared for the throne. Britain fractured once more into squabbling minor kingdoms.

Then came the white dragon—the ruler who unified both the invaders and the angry northern tribes. It was Uther's elder brother, Vortigern the Usurper. A force born not to protect the island, but to destroy it. At the Battle of Londinium, he shattered the city's walls and defeated Morgan and Artoria's father.

Uther vanished into history, never to return.

What followed were days as dark as night. War, relentless and unforgiving, consumed the land. But the people didn't give up hope.

The great sage stepped forward, her voice carrying across the assembled court. "The king's successor has already been chosen. The red dragon shall rise." She paused, letting her words sink in. "A new king will gather the Knights. The white dragon will fall. Our king lives on—and soon, the proof will reveal itself."

Merlin's prophecy spread across the island.

Uther had seen his downfall coming. As a man above men, he was wise—but he was still human. So he and Merlin had chosen not a successor who was "more than human," but one who was not human at all.

That successor was Morgan's sister. The perfect king made flesh, Artoria Pendragon.

Morgan realized the truth as she held the hand of her five-year-old sister.

To the people, that prophecy was hope. To the princess who still dreamed of restoring Britain to glory... it was a nightmare.

"Yeah... a nightmare." Ryuuto stood beside sobbing Morgan, watching the little girl cry alone in the corner.

Participants of the Holy Grail War often dreamed. Maybe it was the spiritual link between Master and Servant, but they glimpsed each other's memories like this—fragments of the past playing out in sleep. So he wasn't surprised to find himself in Britain, fifteen hundred years ago.

Why had Uther cast aside the prodigy Morgan as heir, only to choose the yet-unknown Artoria? Maybe he hated the daughter who had taken his wife's life—who shone even brighter than the wife. Or maybe... he loved her too much. Loved her enough to hope she could live like a normal girl, free from the burden of kingship.

Whatever the answer, it had died with Uther.

Morgan wiped away her tears and left Camelot behind. Artoria was sent to live with a knight's household. From then on, the sisters parted ways—only to reunite one day as mortal enemies.

…

Ryuuto's eyes opened to the soft warmth of Artoria's thighs beneath his head.

Morning light filtered through the windows, painting everything gold. Last night felt like a blur—the Pendragon sisters staying up late with him, sorting through dresses for Artoria. He'd been so exhausted that he'd shamelessly demanded lap pillow service from Artoria as "payment" for his help.

They'd fallen asleep together on the couch, her fingers still tangled in his hair.

But now, Morgan was gone.

He sat up, running a hand through his messy hair, and went looking for her. The place felt too quiet without her sharp commentary or the sound of her heels clicking against the floor.

He found her on the balcony.

She had her back to him, one hand resting on the railing. The morning breeze caught her dark hair, and for a moment she looked exactly like the girl from his dream—lost, alone, watching a world that would never quite belong to her.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, stepping outside.