By the time summer rolled through the hills of the borderlands, their names had spread to every corner of Britain.
Morgan pretended she didn't care, of course.
She scowled at the painted banners they saw in villages now, where her likeness was rendered with silver hair and burning blue eyes, standing over Saxon bodies with Jaune just behind her — taller than life, sword ablaze.
The Witch Queen & Her Golden Knight, some called them now.
The Crownless Highness & the Starborn Squire, others said.
Even the Saxons whispered their names. She heard it in the frantic orders barked at sentries when they passed through the forests at night: Beware the Witch's Wild Hunt. Beware the knight who does not die.
Jaune would grin at the stories. He'd pat the head of a passing child or politely thank the baker who handed him free bread "for his service."
Morgan, on the other hand, would sweep through town like a storm cloud — refusing gifts, snapping at anyone who got too close — and then sit with him afterward, late at night, brooding.
It was easier than admitting the truth.
Easier than saying she liked hearing the people's cheers.
That summer, the largest battle yet came to them at the foot of a broken Roman fort — the last great outpost before the cliffs where Britain ended and the sea began.
It was here, the people said, the Saxons would make their push to take all the north.
And it was here that Morgan and Jaune chose to stand.
In the days leading up to it, she found herself watching him more than usual.
At dawn, when he rose to drill the farmers they'd armed.
At dusk, when he limped back to camp after sparring half the men and giving the rest pointers.
And at night, when he sat on a rock outside her tent, polishing his breastplate by moonlight.
It irritated her.
Worse, it worried her.
Because she could see how thin he'd grown since spring, how pale. His hands, still steady, had begun to tremble sometimes after a fight when he thought she wasn't looking.
And when she caught herself reaching out — to adjust his cloak, to brush hay from his hair — she forced herself to stop and retreat behind her usual barbs.
It was safer that way.
For both of them.
The day of the battle came with no dawn.
Clouds rolled in thick and black over the cliffs, hiding the sun, and when she stood atop the ruined battlements to look down at the Saxon host gathering below, the air smelled like rain and blood already.
"We can still slip away," Jaune murmured at her side.
She didn't bother looking at him.
"If you want to leave, Arc," she replied coldly, "you needn't wait for my permission. But I stay."
When she finally did glance at him, she saw he was smiling faintly.
"That's what I thought," he said. Then he rested one hand lightly on the hilt of his sword.
"Then let's give them something worth fearing, my lady."
The battle was like nothing before.
Two thousand Saxons at the base of the hill.
Barely five hundred Britons holding the fort — if you counted the boys and the old men.
And her.
And Jaune.
She started it with fire.
The air above their heads howled and split, her voice cracking like a whip as she wove the sky into weapons:
Spears of lightning, sheets of sleet to blind the archers, winds strong enough to tear banners from their poles and send horses screaming down the slopes.
And beside her, Jaune was a beacon in the storm — white-gold armor streaked with ash, shield raised as he led charge after charge, rallying the line where it faltered.
Even through the roar of her magic she could hear him shouting over and over:
"HOLD!"
"WITH ME!"
"FOR BRITAIN!"
There was a moment — one moment — when she saw him vanish into the melee completely.
Her heart stopped cold.
Until his sword lit up again, flashing above the mob, carving a path through to the gates.
And then he was back.
When the battle finally ended — when the Saxons broke and fled, leaving their dead strewn across the slope — she was too tired to even stand.
She collapsed on the stones of the fort wall, staff clattering beside her.
And she realized dimly that Jaune was there, dropping to one knee, breathless, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and blood.
"…We… we won," he managed between gasps.
She only nodded, staring out at the field below.
"…We did."
It wasn't until he caught her cheek in his hand — turning her to face him — that she realized her own tears had started falling.
"Hey," he murmured. "We're still here."
And before she could stop herself, she leaned into his palm.
"…For now," she whispered.
That night, the people insisted they come down to the square.
The villagers, the soldiers who'd survived, even the battered knights who still carried Pendragon banners — all of them gathered at the foot of the fort, waiting.
When she stepped into the torchlight, the crowd erupted.
Someone — she never found out who — placed a circlet of laurel and ash on her head.
And when she tried to protest, the chant began:
"WITCH QUEEN! WITCH QUEEN! WITCH QUEEN!"
And beside her, grinning and sheepish, Jaune found his own head bowed under a crown of woven gold and iron.
"GOLDEN KNIGHT! GOLDEN KNIGHT!"
Morgan tried to glare at him — to remind him that she hated crowds, hated noise — but then he caught her hand in his and gave it the smallest squeeze.
And she didn't let go.
Not then.
Not when they were dragged to the long tables to eat.
Not when the children threw wildflowers at their feet.
Not even when the singing started and she saw the way some of the village girls kept glancing at him shyly.
It was later — much later — when she finally cracked.
She found him alone behind the fort, leaning against the old wall, staring up at the moon.
"You should be resting," she said, voice sharper than she intended.
He glanced over, smiling faintly.
"Could say the same for you."
She crossed her arms.
"You looked ridiculous out there tonight. Letting them hang that… thing on you."
He raised a brow.
"It's just a wreath, Morgan. Not a coronation."
"You shouldn't encourage them," she snapped. "It gives them ideas."
"And that's bad… why?" he asked, tilting his head.
Her hands curled into fists.
"Because you don't belong to them," she blurted. "You… you don't belong to them."
That seemed to catch him off guard.
"…Morgan?"
She froze, suddenly aware of how close she'd stepped.
Of how fast her heart was beating.
Of how his blue eyes — so calm, so kind — had fixed on her and wouldn't let go.
And before she could stop herself, she hissed:
"…And you don't belong to those girls, either."
He blinked.
And then, slowly, so maddeningly slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Ah," he murmured. "So that's what this is."
"Don't you dare—"
But he reached out — quick as lightning — and caught her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up.
"Morgan," he said softly.
She glared at him.
"What?"
"You don't have to be so damn proud all the time, you know."
And then — damn him — he leaned down and kissed her.
It was brief, at first.
The kind of kiss a farm boy might give a girl behind the barn after harvest.
But she didn't pull away.
Didn't curse him.
Didn't even speak.
Instead she grabbed the front of his cloak, yanked him down, and kissed him properly.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.
"…I hate you," she muttered.
He grinned.
"You say that a lot."
"Because it's true."
"And yet…"
And when his thumb brushed her cheek, she realized she was smiling too.
They stayed that way for a long time — standing in the shadows of the old fort, crowns forgotten on the stones behind them, the sea wind curling through her hair and carrying their laughter out into the dark.
And for the first time since she'd fled Camelot, Morgan felt — not victorious, not proud — but light.
Like maybe, just maybe…
This was what she'd been fighting for all along.
Below them, the people of the borderlands still sang:
"Witch Queen & Golden Knight,
On storm and shadow they ride.
Britain's wrath, Britain's light —
Side by side, side by side."
And though she'd never admit it out loud, even to herself…
Morgan thought it didn't sound so bad.