Camelot's rise in Marvel

It took Ana and her sisters of the Veiled Hand over a week to prepare what I requested, but as I stood before the three boxes, I was more than satisfied. "You all did well Alice, please convey my thanks to the others."

The young former Widow bowed her head slightly, "Think nothing of it, Your Majesty. We are all happy to be able to serve you."

Some of the young girls were struggling with treating me normally. They had been trained to be loyal, fearing to not appear loyal enough, planting seeds of blind obedience in them.

With them being saved by my knights, given a proper home, and a better life. It caused those seeds to bloom, and now they were really getting into it.

Although I also knew some of them just did it because they played the role and found it fun to do, as well as being honoured to serve me.

Alice was one of those who served me with blind loyalty, something I had and did reward; it wasn't needed, but I wouldn't turn down loyalty, never. It was a good trait, something to be rewarded.

"Call Sir Mordred and Sir Lancelot, and ensure Mordred arrives first. I'm afraid that unless she sees this first, she won't be very happy with everything once she learns about Lancelot's part in it." I asked as I closed back up the boxes.

Alice gave a firm nod and hurried off without another word, her movements precise, like a shadow moving through the halls.

I turned back to the boxes and let my fingers rest atop the lid of the largest one. The craftsmanship was exceptional.

My own box didn't contain anything overly special, but for both Mordred and Lancelot, I was very satisfied with what had been produced. I had no doubt that this wasn't the work of just my own men; either Stark or Phastos had had a hand in this.

Not even five minutes after Alice left, I could feel it before I heard it. The very walls themselves seemed to vibrate and shake, before finally, the sound of steel boots filled the silent castle.

Then, with a force that would have reduced the doors to splinters if they weren't magically reinforced to near indestructibility the doors were kicked open.

And there she stood, the Knight of Rebellion, the Traitor Knight, or as the public liked to call her, Crimson Princess. A title Mordred personally hated, but others seemed to enjoy using around her, though only those who knew her well enough that she wouldn't smash their faces into the ground.

"What is it, Father?" She yelled with excitement in her eyes, those very same eyes locked on the three large boxes on the table before me.

Mordred stormed into the room like a hurricane with nowhere to go, all coiled energy and barely restrained anticipation.

I had to hold out a hand to stop her from jumping over and opening the boxes, her curiosity putting kids before Christmas to shame.

"Calm down, Mordred, take a breath." I tried my best to make her calm down, where in the world did she get the energy?

She had been spending hours sparring with the other knights, yet she was still brimming with energy I hadn't felt since I started having to do the paperwork of a king.

"I am breathing," She said, breathing loudly. "Hear? I'm breathing alright, so what is this about? Did you need anything? Finally gotten bored of being king and wanting to pass the crown to me?"

I was so very happy that I hadn't ended up trying to summon more servants than just my knights. Because I feared what would happen if I ended up with someone like Astolfo, he and Mordred, both filled with endless energy, would drive me mad.

"I told you long ago what it will take before you are ready for the throne, so if you want it, work hard to make the others acknowledge you. No, I brought you here for something else." I said, turning towards the box, the middle one at that.

"What is it," She asked, looking at the box. "It's not Christmas again yet, or my birthday, and you aren't the type to give people gifts at random, so what is going on now?" She asked, almost sounding suspicious.

But I knew her, and she wasn't really suspicious; she was just trying not to sound too eager.

"It is a gift, but it is also something I have prepared for our next mission." I said and gently knocked on the box.

"Wait? Mission? Our? Are we finally going somewhere again?" she pounced at me, gripping my clothes tightly as if afraid I would back out.

"Mordred," I gently removed her hands from my cloak. "Never forget, Morgan made you to be a clone of me, while you are my child and heir, you inherited much from me, so while I might not desire excitement as much as you do, I still get bored doing paperwork all day."

Mordred beamed like she'd just been handed the sun. "So it's true? You're coming too?"

"I wouldn't send you without me," I replied. "If I did, I have no doubt you would start a war or two while out there."

"And they would have deserved it!" She beamed proudly.

"So yes, I am going with you, or rather, you are going with me, and this," I smacked the box again "is your gear."

Mordred's eyes lit up with a dangerous spark. "Gear? For me?"

"Yes," I said, flipping open the lid with a satisfying click. "Made to your specifications. Or rather, made to match your chaos."

Mordred quickly moved to the box, throwing it wide open and looking through its contents. And she quickly looked confused, for inside weren't mighty armor or powerful swords, no, inside was something else entirely.

"What's this?" she asked, confused as she held the red coat in her hands.

"An outfit fitting for the Crimson princess of Camelot." I teased her, to which she turned red and threw the coat in my face.

Mordred's aim was impeccable — the coat hit me squarely in the face.

"Don't call me that!" she barked, cheeks flushed a shade redder than the garment itself. "Crimson Princess, seriously? Who even started that stupid name?!"

"Public opinion," I said, peeling the coat from my face and holding it up for inspection. "And I rather like it. Has a dramatic flair."

"It makes me sound like some pampered royal brat. Prince of Blood was way better." She cursed.

"Sadly, we don't get to pick our nicknames; that is something outside our control, now." I said, handing her the coat back. "Go ahead and try it on, I think that once you do, you will like it."

She snatched the coat back with a grumble, holding it up between two fingers like it had personally insulted her honor. "It better be enchanted. If I'm going to wear something this flashy, I want it to at least be fireproof."

"It is," I said. "Fireproof, coldproof, impact-dampening, and woven with a minor resistance ward against mental interference. Also, red is your color, always has been, always will be, never forget that you are the son of the red dragon of Albion."

"Right, right, calling yourself a dragon, just got the heart and core, why didn't I get such a strong one?" She grumbled as she looked through the box, pulling out the outfit bit by bit. An entire red and black outfit, the colors perfectly fitting her usual style, though the style of clothing wasn't something a knight would wear at all.

"…This looks like something a racing pilot would wear," Mordred muttered, holding up the short jacket and matching shorts. "Or a stunt driver."

"You've always driven like one," I pointed out. "I figured it was appropriate."

She gave me a squint. "And what's with the gloves? Fingerless, really?"

"Trust me, you will like it," I urged.

She still complained, but she did get dressed, out of her armor, out of her outfit, and into the new one, and yeah, it really did fit her. 

She looked at herself in the mirror — red jacket snug around her shoulders, shorts cut just above the thigh, the whole ensemble hugging her lean, combat-toned frame without compromising movement. The contrast of black lining and crimson cloth, the subtle glyphs stitched into the sleeves, even the way the coat flared just slightly behind her — all of it radiated chaotic elegance.

"I hate how good this looks," she muttered, tugging on the gloves.

"Told you."

"It's not knightly at all," she added. "And yet… I kinda feel like I could shoot someone, flip over a truck, and then yell something cool while walking away from the explosion."

"Exactly the idea," I said, nodding with satisfaction. "Plus, with that? People won't even recognize you as Mordred, mostly because of a bit of an enchantment, but still, it's perfect for another undercover mission, one where being flashy and just bringing the fire is the key."

She drew the gun — Clarent II — from the holster mounted along her thigh and gave it a slow, appraising spin. The weapon purred with stored energy, the runes flashing in a heartbeat of crimson light.

"Oh yeah, I will bring the fire alright." She said, aiming the gun at me and pulling the trigger.

Nothing happened.

She hadn't expected much to happen, even a tank fired at point-blank range wouldn't hurt me, much less a small gun.

And I knew she would try it, so I ensured her gun would have a safety on.

"I present the best weapon of this age, the pride of Albion, Clarent II. It's no mere gun, it's powered by a tiny Arc reactor, and fires pure energy, because I know you don't want to have to worry about bullets." I presented the weapon.

Mordred tilted her head, eyes gleaming with curiosity now that she'd had a moment to admire the craftsmanship. She held the gun up again, inspecting the reinforced chamber, the smooth grip, and the distinct lack of a visible magazine. "An Arc reactor?" she echoed, a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth. "You let Stark play with this, didn't you?"

"I'm not sure," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "I just ordered it made for you, and well, I think it turned out well.

"Yeah, it's pretty cool and all, but why not just go with Clarent? The non-shooty version? And this outfit, I mean, it's not stealthy, and if you can enchant it for stealth, why not use the same magic for our armor?" She asked a very reasonable question.

"Because," I said, turning to lean lightly against the edge of the table, "subtlety and stealth are not always the same thing. This mission doesn't require hiding in shadows, there is no need to hide at all, but we can't be recognized, but we should be seen, the more attention the better."

Mordred raised a brow. "So you got one as well?"

I was just about to answer when someone politely knocked on the door. Well, the door was open, so they stood in the open doorway and knocked on the door just to politely draw our attention.

"What is he doing here?" Mordred spat.

Lancelot stood in the doorway, posture perfect, expression unreadable beneath his neatly trimmed beard and knightly poise — though the twitch of amusement in his eyes did not go unnoticed.

He was dressed in his full armor and looked very different from the angry Modred, who resembled someone who had stepped out of a Sci-fi movie. One a knight in shining armor, the other a rebellious racer girl.

"I was summoned," he said smoothly. "By Your Majesty's request, as I understand it."

Mordred glared at him like his very presence was a personal offense. "Father summoned me! Because we are going on a mission together, you? Just get lost while I'm in a good mood." She tried to shoo him away with her gun.

Lancelot raised a single brow at the gesture, entirely unbothered by the barrel now lazily pointed in his direction. "Peace, Mordred," he said mildly. "I have no intention of stealing your spotlight."

"You couldn't if you tried," she shot back. "Not dressed like a tin can."

"True," he admitted with the faintest smile. "But that's why I get a different box."

Mordred froze. Slowly, her eyes slid toward me. "You didn't."

"Yes, Mordred, Lancelot will be going with us this time." I said, and Mordred looked like I had just killed her pet.

(End of chapter)