“Spiral formation! We will not let them breach our lines!” Fitran's voice thundered across the battlefield on Ente Island. The night air was thick with shouts from his troops, the crackle of magic, and the coppery scent of blood. At the front lines, Arthuria swung Excalibur Astra, its golden-blue glow flickering around her as she cleaved through the Chaos soldiers, carving a path for the alliance warriors.

  “Irithya, hurry! You must stop their spellcasting!” he shouted, keeping his gaze locked on the advancing enemies without a single glance away.

  Irithya stood resolute in the front ranks, her face a mask of determination. “I’ve got it under control! The black roots will ensnare the enemy with all their might,” she declared confidently, waving her left hand. In an instant, dark vines sprouted from the ground, lurching forward to attack the foes.

  Meanwhile, Rinoa skillfully maneuvered among the fallen soldiers. “Let me handle them. We need everyone in top shape,” she insisted, her voice trembling with a mix of tension and despair. As her hand brushed against an injured warrior’s, a healing light radiated from her palm. Yet, tears streamed down her cheeks, betraying the heavy burden she bore.

  Amidst the throng, Valen, a messenger from Britain, dashed forward with fervor, weaving through the crowd. “Fitran! This is from Queen Guinevere. There’s an emergency! A secret meeting at the main castle. You are the only one who can deliver this message!” he shouted, breathless from his swift run.

  Fitran turned sharply, his heart racing. “What’s going on? Does this mean Britain is pulling their support?”

  “No! The Queen wishes to speak with you directly, not as a commander, but as Fitran, the person she knows,” Valen responded, hope glinting in his eyes as he gazed intently at Fitran.

  Arthuria bit her lip, concern etched on her face. “We can’t lose you. We need you—this world needs everything we can offer. Please, don’t leave.”

  Irithya took a deep breath, her voice unwavering despite the worry in her eyes. “You truly must go. Without Britain’s backing, all our efforts could be in vain before the war even begins.”

  Rinoa stepped closer, her tone firm yet filled with emotion. “I’ll arrange for a healer. Arthuria can stay here with me. Trust us, we’ll handle everything.”

  Fitran looked at each of them—Arthuria, Irithya, Rinoa.

  In every gaze, he felt their hopes and pleas for him to return safely, as if they were depending on his courage.

  Gently, Arthuria took Fitran's hand, her eyes shimmering with profound emotion. “You have to come back. I need you, and so does this world. Don’t take too long, alright? And tell my mother—we haven’t given up.”

  Fitran nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of those words before stepping aboard the Britannia airship. The night over Ente Island grew more ominous; the protective spell began to show signs of wear. Yet, their hope now rested on his journey to the heart of the Britannia Kingdom—seeking the final answers they desperately needed.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Hours later, amid thick fog draping the land, among towers of blue marble, Fitran finally arrived at the Britannia palace.

  Upon his arrival, the royal guards greeted him respectfully, guiding him through silent halls adorned with ancient goblets and dark paintings depicting tremendous battles of old.

  In the main hall, Queen Guinevere Pendragon stood elegantly before a stained-glass window, her silver-blue gown shimmering beautifully, reflecting the soft moonlight. As her gaze swept across the room, a sharp impression of grandeur mingled with the deep scars of the past became evident.

  “Welcome, Fitran Fate.”

  The Queen's voice resonated, both weighty and warm, casting an intimate atmosphere that seemed to brush against the very depths of every heart present.

  With a gesture of respect, Fitran knelt. “Your Majesty, I bring a message of great import and an urgent question from the frontlines—straight from Arthuria herself.”

  A faint smile flickered in Guinevere’s eyes, her gaze exuding a tranquility that veiled a multitude of stories and dreams. “Do you believe that Britannia will retreat from the battlefield? Or do you fear that I might withdraw my daughter from this conflict?”

  Fitran shook his head, his resolve strengthening. “I understand Arthuria is more than just a princess; she embodies hope for countless lives. Nevertheless, I must be candid—without the Britannian fleet, our alliance will falter against the tide of Chaos. And… I wish to know, as much as possible, what your hopes are amidst this war?”

  Guinevere stepped closer, her gaze deeply scrutinizing as she regarded Fitran. “War has taken everything from me—the love of my life, my closest friends, even the names that should echo through our family tree, now extinguished one by one. My final hope rests in your generation—among youth like Arthuria. She reminds me so much of myself: stubborn, bold, at times impulsive, yet always willing to fight to the bitter end.”

  Fitran stood tall, approaching Guinevere with an earnest gaze, his voice a low murmur imbued with sincerity. “Arthuria… she’s far stronger than anyone I’ve ever encountered. Yet beneath that strength lies vulnerability—especially when it comes to her mother’s hopes. What will happen if all those hopes are shattered?”

  Guinevere inhaled deeply, her expression clouded with sorrow. “Children raised amidst war often carry two faces: one recorded in the annals of history, and the other, a soul longing for the warmth of a mother’s embrace. I can only hope that Arthuria does not become a mere fragment of a forgotten tale. I want her to return as her true self.”

  Fitran gazed intently at Guinevere, moved by the profound emotions swirling between them. “Allow me to make you a promise, Your Highness. If this world burns to ashes, I will protect Arthuria—and all those she holds dear.”

  Guinevere gently rested her hand on Fitran’s shoulder, a light touch yet filled with concern. “Do not carry the burden of the world upon your shoulders, Paladin. There are times when we must recognize when to cease fighting… and begin to believe in causes greater than ourselves.”

  He grasped the shimmering silver seal and handed it to Fitran, his gaze filled with hope. “Take this to Ente Island. Show it to Arthuria—and to the world—that Britannia still stands strong for them. Tell her that I am proud, no matter what happens,” he said, his voice trembling yet resolute.

  Before stepping away, Fitran paused briefly on the palace balcony. He gazed at the thousands of Britannian citizens gathering below, their hopeful songs and the spiral light of lanterns creating a magical atmosphere.

  The world may be on the brink of destruction, but that night in Britannia, there was one light that never dimmed, warming the hearts of all present.

  Fitran took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility upon him. “I will return. To fulfill my promise to the Queen… and for those waiting on the front lines,” he declared, his voice strong yet gentle, as if delivering a vow that would never fade.

  He leapt aboard the airship, the wind welcoming him. As the vessel soared toward the battlefield, a new hope trailed in its wake, weaving together the two worlds standing at the edge of ruin.