The return to Babaloniya was slow. Silent. Sacred.
The gates were opened before dawn, bells tolling in low, solemn harmony.
The golden coffin bore King Gilgamesh.
He lay within, hands folded over his chest. The crown rested atop them.
The father of Uruk, still noble, even in death.
The family walked behind him.
Artizea led the procession, her expression stone—but her hands shook ever so slightly where they held Callisto's tiny fingers.
Rhysand walked beside her, Seraphina in his arms.
Behind them, Arthur and Lizzie, with Cesela, her face pale, holding back tears.
Arturia rode in a carriage, veiled in black. She could not walk.
Not without him.
The people knelt as they passed. Flowers fell like rain from balconies. No cheers. No drums.
Only sorrow.
When they reached the throne room, it was silent.
Then—
The horns blew.
Callisto looked up at his mother. "Mother?"
She smiled faintly, tears in her eyes. "For grandpa," she whispered.
A single voice called out—"All hail the Queen, Artizea Pendragon."
One by One—they knelt.
And she walked.
Each step heavy. Her boots echoed in the chamber that had once held her father's laugh, his commands, his lessons.
She reached the throne.
His throne.
She turned slowly… and sat.
The crown of Uruk glimmered faintly in the morning sun.
"All hail the Queen, Artizea Pendragon." They said in union
The pyre was built at dawn, the hour of the king's first breath. And now Gilgamesh lay upon it, dressed in gold and white. His hands were crossed over his chest. Around him, wreaths of the dowager queens, blue Rosses and red.
Artizea stood at the front.
Cloaked in royal black and crimson, the attire of the new monarch weighed heavier than any crown. Her eyes shimmered—but no tears fell. Not now. Not yet. Beside her, Rhysand held Callisto's hand, while Seraphina stood quiet, her tiny fist clutching the hem of Artizea's cloak.
Arthur stood behind them while Cesaela kept Elizabeth beside her, her gaze on the sea, refusing to meet her grandfather's direction.
One by one, the family stepped forward.
Callisto and Lizzie were first.
Callisto placed a small white flower on his grandfather's chest, then stood still, not understanding the full weight of goodbye—but feeling it anyway. Lizzie finally met his gaze and knelt beside him, placing her flower in his hair, a small whimper escaping.
Arthur followed, tears down his face, bowing his head. Then Julian and Eugene, he could not muster a tear, not because he was indifferent to the feeling of loss, but because he simply had none left.
Elaine lingered longer than the rest, her wings tucked in reverence, stepped forward, and laid a hand on his. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing.
And lastly, Arthuria, the once-lioness, now walked slowly. Broken, but proud. Her fingers trembled as she laid the final flower. She looked at him, her partner, her king.
"You promised me," she whispered. "But I forgive you.." She pressed a kiss to his brow. "Rest now, Gil, I will do as you ask." And then she turned… and walked away.
Artizea stood alone now, above it all—on the same ledge where she once shot her arrow into the sky, declaring herself Crown Princess. Her father had stood below, watching with pride. And now, she stood again to let him go. She raised the flame-tipped arrow. It glowed in the morning light. But before she could release—The sky broke open. Clouds parted. Light fell like gold rain.
The gods were watching, not as judges. But as mourners.
Artizea, breath caught in her throat, loosed the arrow. It flew. Then—The pyre lit. A column of fire rose. and the kingdom knelt.
The dining hall of the Pendragon palace was unnaturally quiet. The long banquet table had been set, silver polished to a mirror's gleam, goblets filled, platters untouched. Every chair was taken—except one.
Gilgamesh's.
The chair at the head of the table remained where it always was—ornate, golden, carved with ancient lion emblems.
No one dared sit in it. Not even Artizea, the rightful heir, whose crown now shimmered with a heavier weight.
She sat to the right of it instead. Just as she always had, before the world changed.
No one spoke.
The clinking of cutlery never came. The room held its breath.
Artizea rose to her feet slowly, her hands trembling slightly.
"Cheers to—" Her voice wavered."Father. A great King."
Everyone turned to her.
She smiled.
It was the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes. That fought its way through shattered ribs and a heart too sore to beat right.
The room reacted instantly.
Arthur smiled and raised his glass.
Euegne blinked twice and gave a small nod.
Elaine murmured something polite.
Rhysand took her hand under the table and squeezed.
Everyone wore their best happy faces.
But the ache hung heavy in the air.
It clung to the walls.
It lived in the silence.
Artizea turned her head to the empty chair beside her. And when she looked at it… her smile cracked.
"Father was the light that guided us through everything."
A laugh, watery and broken, slipped through her lips.
"If he were here—he would say…"
Her breath caught. Her throat closed.
She pressed her lips together as the first tear slid down her cheek, then another, and another until it was too much.
Her hands braced the edge of the table as she bowed her head.
Rhysand stood, wrapping his arms around her, whispering something no one could hear.
But she shook her head, pulled away gently, and said—
"I'm sorry. I can't."
And then she left. The room didn't stop her.
The door closed behind her with a whisper.
Elaine stood next.
Her face was unreadable.
Arturia's voice, gentle but worried, broke the silence.
"Elaine… where are you going?"
Elaine didn't look back. Said nothing. And she was gone, just like that.
Arthur was next—murmuring something about needing air, he picked up Elizabeth who as sobbing quietly,
Cesealia who couldn't bear to watch her daughter cry again.
Went the other direction.
Then Eugene and Julian, who wordlessly gathered the children and left with a heaviness in their steps.
One by one, the chairs emptied.
Until only Arturia remained.
She sat motionless beside her husband's untouched place, her fingers absently brushing against the rim of his goblet.
Her eyes didn't move from the empty chair.
She wouldn't leave it.
She never had.
But now… he had.
And Arturia—was now just a woman. A woman sitting beside a ghost.
And for the first time in her life, she didn't know what to do.