The courtyard of Camelot was alive with celebration — silk banners waved in the warm breeze, trumpets sounded from the battlements, and the clamor of cheering filled the air like thunder. The Royal Tournament had returned — a once-in-a-decade event where knights from every kingdom gathered to prove their strength in front of kings, queens, and legends. And this time, it was hosted in Camelot.

Arthur, in full regal armor but bound to the royal dais, surveyed the arena with a frustrated scowl. “Bloody kingship,” he muttered under his breath as his eyes followed you — his sister, his equal in spirit and steel — walking onto the tournament sands in his place.

The crowd roared. You didn’t wave.

Seated beside Arthur, Gaius chuckled softly. “They don’t know what they’re in for.”

From the shadows of the arena gate, Merlin grinned and leaned forward on the rail. “Neither does her opponent.”

The knights of the Round Table stood in a line behind the royal box, dressed in their finest tunics, all watching with pride and a spark of mischief. Gwaine elbowed Percival, who stood at the front, arms crossed, brow furrowed in silent focus.

“Ten gold coins says her opponent doesn’t last more than two minutes,” Gwaine whispered.

“She’ll do it in one,” Percival replied, without blinking.

Your opponent strutted into the arena with exaggerated swagger — a knight from one of the northern realms, towering, broad, and loud. His armor was gilded. His confidence, unbearable.

He looked you over and snorted. “They send a lady to represent Camelot now? What’s next — tea and embroidery contests?”

The crowd murmured — a mix of offense and amusement. You said nothing. Arthur rolled his eyes and muttered, “He’s doomed.”

The announcer called for silence. The bell rang.

Your sword met his in a blur of motion.

He underestimated your speed. Your strength. The way you moved like a wolf, each strike calculated, each feint brutal. Dust rose as the blades clashed, but yours rang louder. Sharper. Smarter. Within moments, he was scrambling — backpedaling. And then, a final twist of your blade sent his flying across the arena.

You stood over him — sword aimed at his throat, breathing steady.

The crowd erupted.

Arthur rose to his feet, beaming with pride. Merlin let out a triumphant whistle. Percival had the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips — arms still crossed, but his jaw clenched like he was holding back something more than just words.

From behind him, Gwaine snorted. “One minute and three seconds.”

“She must’ve been feeling merciful,” Elyan quipped.

You turned from your fallen opponent and walked off the sand, not with a bow or a curtsy — but the cool confidence of someone who never had anything to prove… but proved it anyway.

And above it all, your brother’s voice rang out, clear and proud:

“Camelot has never needed a king to win.”