Lancelot

“Lancelot… so you’ve returned. Do you still hate my son…?”

“No, that ended long ago. I’m just a bodyguarding knight now.”

Lancelot gave Carmine a courteous smile and took his leave. That wasn’t a lie. It was the truth. He truly no longer cared.

He had first made his name as a knight in this very domain, and he had once kept deep ties with the Desert People.

“I came because Lord Agravain ordered me to—but nothing’s changed since back then, has it… It seems your wish still hasn’t come true.”

Stepping out onto the terrace and gazing over the castle town, Lancelot recalled the day’s commotion and let out a long sigh.

“And yet… if it’s Lord Arthur—who would even throw himself in harm’s way to protect a child of the Desert People—perhaps he could mend this rift.”

He drew out from his chest a necklace adorned with a small, iridescent branch and spoke to himself.

Lancelot did not, in fact, belong to Agravain’s faction. He owed the man for pulling him from prison, yes—but he lived by the belief that a knight exists to protect the people.

So when he was told to “evaluate Arthur,” he merely assumed it was more tedious factional squabbling. Had the matter not involved the Desert People, he would likely have refused.

“Lord Arthur, is it… His reputation has improved lately. But I’ll judge the man myself. If he lacks the makings of a prince, then…”

With such thoughts, he went to rejoin Arthur—only to find him flirting playfully with a maid.

A short distance away, his betrothed, Morgan, wore a faintly pained expression—and Lancelot’s body moved on its own, as always.

“So you’re the famed Lady Morgan—astonishingly beautiful. And a married woman besides… perfection itself. Would you allow me the honor of serving as your escort?”

A man who makes his fiancée sad isn’t worth protecting—so he offered gentle words to the wounded woman. But her response defied his expectations.

“Unfortunately, I already have an escort. And I’m sick of strangers touching me. Has Agravain failed to teach his men basic manners?”

She slapped his hand away. Then she leaned into Arthur—wearing a look of complete trust…

He had seen Morgan from afar before, always with cool eyes. To witness such an expression from her now shocked Lancelot, and, despite himself, he grew curious about Arthur. Yet during the journey, he had sensed nothing special from the prince.

“In that case, would you entrust your protection to me?”

When they reached their destination and seemed about to head for the bazaar, he called out—and Arthur met his gaze with open hostility.

“Having a man from another faction serve as our escort… what a hilarious joke.”

Lancelot returned the look with a modest killing intent—but though clearly rattled, Arthur still moved to shield Morgan. Surprised, Lancelot felt a flicker of amusement.

Oh? A royal, yet he’s trying to protect his betrothed from my intent…

In truth, Arthur had merely remembered his past life, panicked, and was secretly hoping Morgan would do the fighting—but Lancelot could not have known that.

Then, at the bazaar, the prince’s behavior was nothing like a prince’s—closer to that of a commoner, which surprised him.

Arthur sampled stall foods without hesitation and struck up conversations with merchants on his own. The impression of naiveté faded; instead, Lancelot saw a serious nature that needed to confirm things with his own eyes.

Amid this, he noticed a girl watching Arthur. Poorly dressed—and a Desert Person besides.

There was no killing intent, but the look was that of a hunter eyeing prey. With Arthur laughing and enjoying himself, he must have looked like an easy mark.

When Tristan moved to intercept the girl as she approached Arthur, Lancelot stopped him.

Tristan stared in shock, but Lancelot ignored him. He wanted to see how Arthur would treat a member of the Desert People. And though the purse was indeed stolen, they did manage to catch the girl.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes. What else am I supposed to do? I don’t have money for food.”

If Arthur lashed out and ordered an execution in a fit of emotion, conflict with the Desert People would become inevitable.

But Arthur’s next action defied expectations.

“I see… that’s rough. Take this—and give the purse back.”

“…You mean it?”

He shared food with her. Too soft for a noble, perhaps—but a softness Lancelot approved of.

“Look, people going hungry isn’t their fault. That’s on the ones who run the lands. Which means the blame is partly ours, too.”

Arthur’s answer—given with a wry smile as Morgan scolded him—was a poor excuse. The Desert People weren’t Britannia’s subjects, after all.

Lancelot expected Morgan to snap—but instead, she let it pass with a rueful smile. That stirred a memory of the rumors that Arthur possessed extraordinary wisdom.

He had thought it was merely Morgan managing impressions—yet her eyes shone with unmistakable trust.

Then… could this be the beginning of his strategy?

Just then the ground trembled faintly. Lancelot sharpened his senses and caught it—a hidden gaze. No killing intent, but a presence far from ordinary, watching them from concealment.

He wondered if only he, familiar with the Desert People, had noticed—but then he saw Arthur grin.

Could it be—he fed that child to establish contact with the Desert People?

The thought flashed through him, and he held back Tristan and Morgan as they sensed the sandworm’s approach. Slaying the beast here would ruin Arthur’s scheme.

And sure enough, after Arthur threw himself before the girl to shield her, a Desert woman wearing earrings of iridescent wood appeared before them.

“…They said the Britannian prince had no combat strength. I wondered what he would do—but to shield a child of the Desert People with your own body…”

“Miranda, big sister!?”

“Desert People or not, pain hurts all the same. Especially for a child. That’s obvious, isn’t it? Now—who are you?”

Arthur’s matter-of-fact reply drew respect into the eyes of the girl called Miranda.

So… he anticipated this, and that’s why he helped her?

Lancelot knew that iridescent wood was worn only by figures of rank among the Desert People—he’d learned it from that girl, and from the officer he’d once captured at the front who carried the same.

“First, allow me to apologize for testing you, Lord Arthur! My life is forfeit if you wish—but please, hear me out. The Desert People are on the brink of annihilation because of the Army of the Dead!”

“Think nothing of it. Royals are used to being tested. Now—what is it you need?”

Even faced with the Desert girl’s discourtesy, he answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In a blink, he had secured a Desert ally. Lancelot was impressed—and wondered what he would do next…

He found his answer in Arthur’s talk with Baron Carmine. It seemed the prince had studied the Desert People quite extensively.

And Lancelot understood: even the exchange with the girl had been part of a design to secure the Fruit of Plenty.

He grimaced, recalling nobles who used people as pawns—but at the same moment, he remembered a dream once shared with her.

“Hey, Lancelot… if someone like the Holy King appeared again, do you think the Desert People and Britannia could join hands once more?”

He savored the words of that dreaming girl.

“Lord Arthur… I still don’t understand you. But if you choose to walk the same path as the Holy King, then…”

Holding a fragile hope, Lancelot turned his gaze toward Arthur’s chamber.