I Became The Novel's Biggest Antagonist

"I can't believe this is happening!" 

"Stop shouting and get dressed already!" 

"Shut it, both of you!" 

"Just be thankful we're still alive."

Inside a grand room in the palace, about a dozen men stood, half-dressed and humiliated. It was an awkward, almost comical sight. Despite the bizarre situation, there was a reason for it.

These men were once noble advisors in King Arthur's court, the very ones who had counseled him in his reign. But the old order had fallen. During the siege, those who resisted Ivan's Legion had been slaughtered on the spot, with no mercy shown to anyone who dared fight back. These nobles, however, had chosen a different path—they had knelt, surrendering themselves to Gevurah's dominion. Their loyalty had shifted not out of respect, but survival.

Now, they found themselves still alive, but prisoners in their own kingdom. They were forced to serve under Ivan's new regime, helping Gwenyra oversee the rebuilding of Camelot. Day after day, they were watched like hawks, assembled in a room to complete menial tasks—filling out documents, signing decrees—under constant surveillance.

Today was different. Today, they were herded into another room and told to strip down, not for any grotesque or malicious reason, but to select attire befitting the upcoming wedding. It was to be a grand affair, a union between two great forces. The nobles had no choice but to participate, even if the ceremony was nothing more than a public farce designed for the cameras.

One by one, the men awkwardly chose their garments, dressed in lavish noble attire that once symbolized their power but now felt like a mockery. The ambiance was really awkward, especially with Ivan's guards standing watch—five of them, some of whom were women. The elderly nobles blushed with shame, embarrassed by the exposure of their aging bodies in front of younger eyes. It was a humiliation none could voice aloud of course. 

Meanwhile, in another room, a similar process was taking place for the noblewomen, who were also being carefully monitored. Only women from Ivan's Legion oversaw them, but that did little to ease the discomfort of the situation.

The wedding, as grand as it was meant to be, was a hollow spectacle. Though it would be broadcast to the public, no one present had truly given their consent. There was no joy, no celebration, only the threat of consequences. Every noble, every citizen, had a role to play before the cameras—directed by none other than Charlie Dust, the propagandist capturing the charade on film.

They had been warned—no, threatened—to behave exactly as Ivan's regime wished. Any sign of rebellion, any hint of disobedience, and their families, already held hostage, would suffer the consequences. 

As they stepped out of the hall, ready to move on, they crossed paths with a group of noblewomen emerging from the neighboring room. For a brief moment, their eyes met in awkward silence, but the tension was quickly interrupted by the rising voices of the men nearby.

"Is that really you, Lady Millow?"

"I never imagined Lady Meadow could look this stunning in formal attire..."

"I can't believe what I'm seeing."

The surprised, and somewhat condescending, remarks from the noblemen sparked a ripple of discomfort among the women. Many of the noblewomen grimaced in annoyance.

In the court hall, although they were all dressed well, the women had not been quite as extravagantly made up or adorned. But now, with their elaborate gowns and excessive gloss, the sudden change was jarring, catching the men off guard. Until now, many of them had viewed the noblewomen as little more than irksome presences—hardly worthy of such admiration.

"Move."

The men of Gevurah shoved the noblemen aside, pushing forward with no regard for social niceties. To them, these nobles were all the same—living only to handle the trivial matters that they found beneath their concern.

"Is that truly the end, Lord Lucan?" Lady Meadow asked as she approached a middle-aged man who had remained silent throughout the commotion.

Lucan, one of the highest-ranking nobles in Arthur's court, was also Bedivere's younger brother. His face was etched with weariness.

"I suppose so. All of the Knights of the Round Table have been defeated," he replied somberly.

The Knight of the Round Table founded by Arthur Pendragon and it was thanks to them that he ahd conquered all Britannia. And these same people had been defeated until the last one.

"And Merlin? We haven't seen her," Lady Meadow asked.

Lucan let out a bitter laugh. "She probably fled the moment she sensed the danger. She always knew what was coming."

Lady Meadow frowned and shook her head. "For all her flaws, Merlin was always loyal to Arthur. I believe there's a reason she left before the attack. It doesn't make sense for her to abandon us without cause."

"Even if she has a plan, it won't matter against them," Lucan said grimly. His voice lowered as if recalling a terrible memory. "No one can stand against these... monsters."

His mind flashed back to the horrific scene he had witnessed—where a mere boy, no older than fifteen, with tousled blond hair, had effortlessly slaughtered the most battle-hardened knights of the Round Table. They were veterans of war, warriors who had faced countless enemies, and yet this child had cut through them as if they were no more than helpless children.

A monster.

Lucan shuddered at the memory, the echo of that boy's murderous aura still sending chills through him.

That boy was stronger than even Arthur Pendragon himself—a fact that seemed utterly absurd. 

Lucan struggled to accept it, but there was no denying the overwhelming power Ivan's Legion possessed. And worse still, that boy wasn't even their leader. Lucan had once believed that no force could ever topple them, that Britannia's strength was unmatched. But now, the cold reality set in: they were powerless. All they could do was obey, serve, and hope to remain useful enough not to be discarded like so many others who had resisted.

Lady Meadow stood in silence beside him. She had never seen Lucan so defeated, his proud shoulders sagging under the crushing burden of their loss. It seemed, to her, like the end of their beloved Britannia—an empire that had stood strong for this last decade, now crumbling beneath the heel of Ivan's Legion.

They reached the grand throne hall where the wedding ceremony was to take place, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. As they stepped inside, the nobles couldn't help but gape. The decorations were beyond anything they had ever seen, even surpassing the splendor of Arthur's own coronation, for those old enough to remember it. The sheer grandeur was overwhelming—lavish drapes of gold and crimson, towering floral arrangements, and rows upon rows of chairs meticulously arranged along both sides of the hall. The nobles, silenced by awe and dread, took their seats one by one, filling the hall in anticipation of the event.

The wedding of two great powers was about to unfold, and despite their personal feelings, despite their nervousness, they waited eagerly for the arrival of the bride and groom.

***

Meanwhile, in Gwenyra's private quarters.

A handful of women surrounded her, busy with their tasks. Gwenyra sat in a plush chair in front of a large mirror, her reflection almost unrecognizable. Her face, already beautiful, had been enhanced—her eyes framed by shimmering highlights, her lips glossed to perfection. The royal maids had been returned to her for this occasion, two familiar faces from her past, carefully preparing her for the most important and dreaded day of her life. They worked in concert with a professional artist, ensuring that every detail of her appearance was flawless.

"You look truly stunning, Princess," Clita, Gwenyra's personal maid, said warmly as she finished styling her hair, gently laying the final strands into place.

"Thank you, Clita," Gwenyra replied, forcing a bitter smile. Her beauty, now radiant, felt like a cruel irony. Despite the compliments, she found no joy in her reflection, nor in the day ahead.

She had always known that, as a princess, her marriage would be arranged. Love had never been something she expected; her duty was to secure an alliance that would benefit Britannia. But the reality of her situation was far more brutal than any of her youthful imaginings. Her groom was not a prince from a neighboring kingdom, not a noble seeking peace, but the very man who had brought her homeland to its knees. He was the one who had laid waste to her city, the one responsible for the deaths of so many of her people. And now, she was to stand beside him as his wife.

But even if her heart refused, Gwenyra knew her duty as a princess remained unchanged. For the sake of Britannia, she would do what was necessary—even if it meant marrying a monster. This sacrifice had always been expected of her.

Clita, her loyal handmaiden, carefully finished tying back Gwenyra's long, silken hair before gently placing the delicate bridal veil over her face. The painstaking preparation was finally complete. 

Rising gracefully, Gwenyra let the full length of her stunning white wedding gown cascade around her, the fabric shimmering with each movement.

"Princess," Clita murmured softly, handing her a small bouquet of red roses. Gwenyra accepted the flowers, cradling them in her hands.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. She pushed aside any lingering doubts or fears. There was no room for hesitation now.

Straightening her posture, Gwenyra left her chambers, her maids following closely behind, as she walked toward her new dark life.