Incest Pendragon

"It's obvious, isn't it? I had already summoned the church from the start. You know why I imprisoned you, don't you? Why I was kind to you, then cruel, then kind again. You must have figured it out by now, the answer to my question." King Uther's voice was dismissive, as though the matter was beneath him.

"You sought to control the church through me, King Uther? Surely, you knew this was nothing but a fool's errand. It's impossible. Pope Leo would never allow it, nor would anyone else in the church. You were deluded to think otherwise." Francesca Prelati's words dripped with disdain, as she leaned lazily against the cold stone wall of the chamber.

She wasn't worried about the king's unpredictability or the threat of his lustful eyes wandering over her.

Why?

Because those eyes weren't wild with perversion anymore. They were calm, controlled—rational in a way she had never seen before. The man who once showed her nothing but cruelty and lust now appeared collected, almost frighteningly so.

It unnerved her more than the violence or rage ever had.

She couldn't help but wonder how easily he slipped into these different masks, like a skilled performer changing roles.

"Let me ask you again, Francesca Prelati. Is what you say truly the case?" King Uther asked, with a mock playfulness.

He poured himself a glass of wine, swirling the red liquid as if the whole conversation were some casual parlor game.

Leaning against the wall with a leisurely smile, he made no move to touch her, much to her relief—though the tension in her chest still lingered, waiting for his mood to shift again.

Her wariness was justified. She knew Uther's nature all too well. The man was a master of inconsistency and very much moody. One moment, kind. The next, cruel. It was no wonder she remained on guard, anticipating some hidden cruelty behind his latest display of calm.

"It is the truth. Does it even need to be questioned?" Francesca rolled her eyes, though she quickly hid the gesture, lowering her head to avoid provoking the king.

"I expected more cleverness from you, Francesca. I'm disappointed. Perhaps I should dispose of you, find a more capable nun to take your place?" Uther's tone was light, almost jesting, but she knew better. The threat was real, wrapped in the guise of humor. Her heart raced, but she spoke quickly.

"Forgive me, King Uther. Enlighten me. I know I'm not as clever as you desire," she said, her tone shifting, suddenly full of flattery and submission. It was a drastic change, one that caught the king off guard.

He wasn't used to such a quick reversal in demeanor. Even he could sense how forced, how false, her words had become.

"I was only joking, woman. I have no intention of disposing of you." He said it as if trying to ease the tension, but the air between them only grew thicker.

"I understand, King Uther." Francesca bowed her head, though inside, she scoffed at the lie.

Who would believe such hollow words?

Even as a joke, it was suck.

Your joke isn't funny, she thought bitterly.

But, of course, she kept those thoughts hidden behind her obedient mask.

"Then let me tell you something, nun. Do you really think your pope, or whatever high-ranking authority in your church, can stand against the will of the people? The voice of the masses? No, they cannot. As long as you play your part well and follow the script I've laid out for you, I will allow you to become the very voice of the people—giving you the power to rule, to grow stronger, and to enjoy more freedom than you ever could imagine. That's the deal." King Uther took a leisurely sip of his wine, savoring the taste as he spoke to her with measured words.

Francesca Prelati's expression turned sour as she responded bitterly, "In the end, you still haven't promised me true freedom."

"Does that even matter, Francesca Prelati?" King Uther replied, his tone unwavering. "Do you truly believe any of us are truly free? Not even I can claim such a luxury. Even I am shackled by responsibilities and expectations. Unless I were to abandon everything—to turn my back on the crown, live in complete seclusion, and forsake all the duties that come with my position as king—then, and only then, could I claim real freedom."

He sighed heavily, placing his now-empty glass back on the desk with a soft clink, the weight of his own words evident.

"Enough of this talk," he continued, his voice growing sharper. "The choice is yours: earn your freedom through your own means, or work for me and take what I offer."

With that, he pulled a dagger from his pocket and tossed it toward her, its cold metal glinting in the dim light.

"The decision is yours to make."

Francesca instinctively caught the dagger mid-air, her hand trembling as she grasped its hilt.

She couldn't help but feel shaken to the core.

Did this man truly care so little for her life?

Was he really so indifferent and unsentimental as to suggest that she take her own life with this very blade just to prove his point how to earn the freedom through death?

Her eyes followed his retreating figure as he walked away, his back turned, giving no sign that he cared about what decision she would ultimately make.

The coldness of his indifference left her speechless.

She knew that King Uther was right when he said that true freedom does not truly exist—not for a king, not for a nun, nor for anyone who seeks to wield power in any form.

Even though he was correct in this, it still did not give him the right to tell her to "fuck off" and suggest that she should kill herself just to prove his point.

Such behavior was not only almost cruel, but it also bordered on the mindset of a psychopath.

Her grip tightened around the dagger before she angrily threw it away, the clatter of metal against the floor echoing her frustration and rage.