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Nathanael pondered deeply on the Planet's words, which now echoed in his mind like an ancient whisper. He had asked specific questions about Antony Stark—or Tony Stark, as he was better known—and the Planet, in its infinite wisdom, had revealed to him the threads of destiny entwined around the man.
Stark had been kidnapped by the Ten Rings sect under the orders of the fearsome Raza, but what intrigued Nathanael most was the hidden betrayal behind the act. Obadiah Stane, the man Stark considered an ally, had secretly negotiated with the terrorists, trading advanced weapons for Tony's own captivity. A betrayal that would mark the beginning of a turbulent journey for Iron Man.
Yet, even trapped in a cave, surrounded by scrap metal and under constant watch, Tony Stark was not a man who surrendered. Nathanael saw in his mind fragments of the future—the gleam of metal being forged, sparks flying as Stark worked tirelessly. He was building something that would change everything: the Mk 1, the first Iron Man armor. A crude yet revolutionary suit that would grant him not just freedom, but the power to become something greater.
And this was only the beginning.
Nathanael knew the events that followed would lead to a critical point: the invasion of New York by the Chitauri, led by Loki, the god of mischief. If that battle unfolded as foreseen, the consequences for Earth would be catastrophic. But there was something even more urgent, something that weighed heavier on his heart than any future war.
O Celestial adormecido sob Camelot.
He could feel the presence of that colossal being, dormant for ages but now merely years away from awakening. If that were to happen, not just Camelot, but the entire world would be in peril. Nathanael closed his eyes, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He couldn't act impulsively—he needed strategy, patience.
But time was running out.
With a deliberate motion, Nathanael rose from the Throne of Avalon, his white robes flowing like snow under the soft light of the hall. The gesture immediately caught the attention of Artoria, his queen, who sat beside him, watching him with emerald eyes full of concern.
"My king?" She tilted her head slightly, her long golden hair cascading over her shoulders like a gilded mantle.
Nathanael turned to her, his golden eyes gleaming with supernatural intensity.
"Let us retire to my chambers," he said, his voice calm yet laden with urgency. "We have much to discuss... about my visions."
Artoria held his gaze steadily, sensing the gravity in his words. Without hesitation, she nodded and rose, her armor glinting faintly as she followed the White King.
Upon reaching the royal chambers, the two crossed the hall adorned with stained glass that filtered sunlight into hues of gold and blue, casting ethereal patterns upon the immaculate white marble. The divine capital of Camelot, carved from the very outer shell of the Holy Lance Rhongomyniad, stood majestic, its lofty towers gleaming like crystal under the serene sky.
As they stepped onto the royal balcony, a gentle breeze caressed their faces, carrying the scent of wildflowers blooming across the verdant hills surrounding the city. Nathanael closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the pulsing energy of the kingdom beneath his feet. With a fluid motion, his gleaming armor dissolved into particles of gold and white light, dissipating like mist in the wind. Beside him, Artoria did the same, her own armor vanishing in a silvery shimmer, leaving her clad only in her noble attire—lighter now, yet no less regal.
The White King took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the pure air of Avalon before speaking, his voice deep and measured:
"The Earth will face many trials in the days to come." His golden eyes fixed on the horizon, as if seeing beyond time itself. "Invasions, wars, conflicts that will tear nations apart and test humanity. For us, they will not be insurmountable obstacles... but the true danger lies in the consequences for the Planet itself."
He lowered his gaze, as if he could see through the ground, down to the depths where the slumbering Celestial lay.
"To kill it, I will wield the Holy Lance... but only at the crucial moment. If we act too soon, we will draw the attention of other cosmic beings—and that, sooner or later, will bring an even greater calamity."
Artoria remained silent for a moment, absorbing his words. Her emerald eyes, as vibrant as the hills surrounding them, studied Nathanael's face before she murmured:
"But I sense there is something else troubling you, my King."
Nathanael smiled faintly, a flicker of admiration crossing his features. She always could see through him.
"Yes." He inclined his head, now looking directly at her. "There are people suffering beyond these walls. People who bear unjust burdens, forgotten by Camelot's glory. As King, I cannot ignore them. I wish to reach out, to open our gates, to offer them a place beneath this light."
His gaze was firm, but there was a rare softness in his words.
"And for that... I would have the full support of the Round Table."
Artoria held his gaze for a moment before offering a faint smile—small, yet brimming with quiet meaning.
"So it shall be, my King."
Nathanael smiled tenderly as he took Artoria's hand in his, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. The gentle breeze from the royal balcony played with the golden strands of her hair as he watched her reaction with affectionate eyes.
"And here we are, not even wed yet," he murmured, his voice laced with sweet teasing, "and already you surrender yourself so completely? What ever did I do to earn such devotion?"
Artoria felt heat rise to her cheeks, her normally impassive features betraying a subtle flush. She turned her gaze toward the distant hills, as if seeking refuge in the serene landscape, but couldn't quite hide the tremor of emotion in her voice.
"I... owe you for showing me the truth," she confessed, the words slipping out in a near-reverent whisper. "For opening my eyes to the folly with which I ruled my Camelot. Every life lost, every pain caused by my stubbornness... even Mordred's hatred, my own flesh and blood, was born from my misguided choices."
Her shoulders bowed slightly under the weight of memory, the invisible crown of her mistakes pressing upon her. Nathanael remained silent, letting her speak, knowing these words came from a deep and wounded place.
"But now," Artoria continued, lifting her gaze with renewed determination, "with your summoning, with this second chance fate has granted me... I can reclaim what I lost on that battlefield. I can be different. I can—"
"Wait," Nathanael gently interrupted, his thumb tracing slow circles over the back of her hand. "Don't thank me yet. Not while your bond with Mordred remains wounded." His golden eyes gleamed with both challenge and encouragement. "Save your gratitude for when you've truly reconciled. Then—only then—may you thank me as much as you please."
Artoria froze for a heartbeat, startled by the interruption, but soon a small, genuine smile bloomed on her lips. There was a promise in that look—a promise that this time, she would do things differently. And Nathanael would be there, hand in hand with her, every step of the way.