Camelot's rise in Marvel

Upon entering the castle, the group found themselves in a vast foyer. A grand staircase spiraled upwards, with corridors stretching out in various directions.

The floor shimmered with a mirror-like polish, light flooding in through the many large windows.

Natasha had been in a few old castles and buildings, often finding them dark, but not this one; this one was light and bright.

Sir Richard was practically buzzing with excitement. "This... this is the heart of Camelot," he gasped. "The very halls where the Round Table convened. The rooms where decisions that shaped a kingdom—no, a legend—were made."

Bedivere turned to the group, his demeanor calm yet proud. "The Round Table is no simple myth, Sir Richard. You will soon see for yourselves."

As they continued through the castle, Natasha found herself mapping the route in her head.

However, another thought nagged at her.

Professor Alen Marlowe, he had hardly spoken since they arrived in the city.

It was understandable to be speechless, but she couldn't help but think they should have assessed his courage before bringing him along.

However, it was too late for that now, she only hoped he wasn't another plant, as it could complicate her mission.

Still, no matter how grand the castle, it didn't take long before they reached another grand hall. One with large windows allowing beams of light to steam inside, hitting a magnificent round table surrounded by chairs of equal height.

"That… is it truly? The Round Table?" Richard asked, gazing at it with the love and wonder one might show upon seeing their child for the first time.

"Yes," Mordred replied casually.

"I ask that you refrain from touching it; earning a seat is a significant honor, and those who don't hold that honor should treat it respectfully."

Sir Bedivere cautioned, halting the three men in their tracks, unable to resist the allure of sitting there.

"Right, my apologies," Andrew quickly responded. "It's easy to forget that while it's a legend to us, it's very real and personal to all of you."

"No harm done, now let's proceed." At the end of the hall were a few steps leading to a small platform and massive doors, intricately carved and inlaid with gold and silver. "Beyond these doors lies the throne room; do not gaze upon the throne unless permitted."

Everyone, including Natasha, swallowed nervously at his words as he approached and knocked on the doors.

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As we heard a knock at the door, Agravain glanced at me. Upon seeing my slight nod, he called out, "You may enter."

The massive double doors of the throne room creaked open, unleashing a cascade of golden light into the antechamber.

The delegation stepped forward with cautious reverence, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet lining the entryway.

Sir Bedivere and Mordred escorted them inside, flanked by the ever-watchful knights who had accompanied them from the city gates.

The throne room was a spectacle—a breathtaking fusion of grandeur and history.

Towering columns adorned the hall, intricately carved with depictions of Camelot's legends: battles fought, alliances forged, and victories celebrated.

The vaulted ceiling soared high, painted to resemble a starlit sky that shimmered with an ethereal glow.

The air held a faint, comforting scent of incense, enhancing the room's solemnity.

At the far end of the room, the throne stood elevated on a white stone dais.

This throne was a masterpiece—gleaming silver, embellished with intricate carvings of dragons, swords, and crowns. Its surface was polished to a mirror-like luster.

Upon it sat the figure of the King.

Clad entirely in shining silver armor, they appeared as an imposing figure of mystery and authority.

The armor bore no flaws, reflecting light with an almost mirror-like shine. Completely concealed by the helm, the figure's face was veiled, revealing not even a hint of skin.

A long, flowing cape of white fabric draped elegantly from the figure's back, pooling on the floor. It was adorned with the symbol of a golden crown flanked by two lions.

The King exuded an imposing aura that seemed to permeate the room.

It was impossible not to feel awe when looking upon them.

Two knights flanked the throne.

To the right stood Sir Agravain, sharp and calculating. His black-and-silver armor had a subdued yet menacing sheen. His cloak fell neatly to one side, accentuating his disciplined stance.

His dark hair was impeccably styled, and his piercing eyes missed nothing, scanning the newcomers with an assessing gaze.

To the left stood Sir Gawain, his blond hair contrasting sharply with Agravain's dark presence. His golden and white armor reflected the room's warmth, and his expression held a blend of quiet pride and contained emotion.

While Agravain projected cold pragmatism, Gawain emanated a palpable knightly honor.

His green eyes occasionally flicked toward the delegation, tinged with curiosity.

As the delegation approached, the knights who had escorted them halted abruptly and stepped aside, forming a solemn line.

Bedivere turned to the group, his tone respectful yet firm. "You now stand before the King. Show your reverence and kneel."

Natasha exchanged a swift glance with Sir Andrew and Sir Richard.

Without hesitation, the men instinctively dropped to one knee.

Even Professor Marlowe, the linguist, finally seemed to summon the energy to kneel as well.

Natasha followed suit, uncertain whether she should have acted differently as a woman, but hoping that mirroring the others was acceptable.

She heard the knights behind her kneel, the sound of their armored knees striking the ground resonating in the air.

Even Mordred and Sir Bedivere knelt, and Natasha felt their deep respect for their king.

From his position to the King's right, Sir Agravain stepped forward, his dark gaze fixed on the delegation.

His voice was calm, authoritative, and devoid of warmth.

"You now stand before The Lion King, the Lord of Storms, Sovereign of Camelot, Bearer of Rhongomyniad, and Shepherd of Justice. His Majesty Arthuria Pendragon, the once and future king!

You will speak only when addressed and act with the reverence befitting this sacred hall."

For a moment, the room fell silent.

Natasha wondered if she had misheard—wasn't it supposed to be Arthur Pendragon?

Finally, Agravain turned slightly toward the throne, bowing deeply.

"My King, the delegation from the realm beyond Camelot stands ready to address you. Shall I proceed?"

A hand encased in silver gauntlets lifted slightly from the throne's arm—an unassuming gesture that commanded authority.

Natasha noticed how even the knights in the room straightened at the motion, as though an invisible ripple of power traveled through the space.

Agravain turned back to the delegation. "Rise and present yourselves."

His tone was unwavering, leaving no room for doubt.

As the delegation slowly rose, the weight of the room's presence felt almost palpable.

Natasha remained alert, her movements deliberate and calm. Her keen eyes flitted between the figures assembled around her.

Sir Richard and Sir Andrew seemed composed yet awestruck.

Meanwhile, Professor Marlowe appeared to barely maintain his poise. His hand twitched as if eager to jot down notes on everything he observed.

Natasha, however, focused intently on the armored figure seated on the throne—the so-called Lion King.

Every intricate movement oozed power, while the complete concealment of their identity beneath the immaculate silver armor infused an unsettling air of mystery.

Agravain's mention of the name Arthuria Pendragon piqued her interest. She had anticipated meeting Arthur, the legendary King of Camelot, not this armored mystery.

This distinction was not lost on her, and she pondered whether her companions had noticed as well.

Sir Andrew Farrow stepped forward, reinstating his practiced diplomatic demeanor.

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice steady and composed. "I am Sir Andrew Farrow, a representative from the United Kingdom. It is a profound honor to stand before you."

The King remained unmoving, their armored gaze locked onto Sir Andrew. Yet, they remained silent.

Natasha sensed—whether from training or intuition—the weight of their scrutiny, even from behind the visor.

This silence was intentional, designed to gauge the delegation without uttering a single word.

Sir Richard stepped forward, barely containing his enthusiasm.

"Your Majesty, I am Sir Richard Cole, a humble historian. Being here, in this legendary hall, is an indescribable privilege. Witnessing Camelot's legacy firsthand—it feels like a dream come true."

Natasha suppressed an eye roll at his reverent tone.

Although Richard's passion was genuine, she recognized that such fervor could be a double-edged sword in diplomacy.

The King's reaction remained imperceptible, their silence as commanding as their presence.

Lastly, Professor Marlowe, the linguist, hesitated before stepping forward.

His voice quivered slightly, yet he found the strength to speak.

"Your Majesty, I am Professor Alan Marlowe. My specialization centers on languages and cultural history. I hope to facilitate communication between us."

Once again, the King offered no response.

However, Natasha observed a slight furrow in Sir Gawain's golden brows at Marlowe's remarks.

She questioned whether the linguist's hesitation revealed a lack of conviction.

Meanwhile, Sir Agravain stood impassively, his keen eyes darting between the delegation members as if cataloging every statement and gesture.

Deciding it was her moment, Natasha stepped forward.

Her tone was both respectful and assertive.

"Your Majesty, I am Emily Ross, here as a security operative to ensure the safety of this delegation. It is an honor to stand before you."

Her words were succinct, deliberate, and carefully chosen.

She understood the importance of brevity, especially in the presence of knights adept at interpreting every nuance.

Mordred's sharp voice sliced through the tension, dripping with indignation.

"You imply a lack of trust in the King's honor! Do you believe that he would harm guests? Is that why you're here, 'security operative'—to shield them from us?"

The accusation lingered in the air like a taut blade.

Natasha's instincts heightened; she realized the critical nature of the moment.

Just as she contemplated interjecting, Sir Andrew Farrow moved forward, his tone calm yet firm.

"Sir Mordred, it is not the King's honor we question," Andrew stated, bowing slightly in respect.

"However, the burden of misunderstanding can lead to conflict, even when none is intended. We are outsiders to your domain, and our purpose is to bridge that gap—to demonstrate that we come in peace and to prevent any missteps that may offend your King or his knights."

Mordred's expression hardened slightly, his smirk wavering as he tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Missteps, you say? So, you fear offending us?" His voice held a sharper edge, though it was less hostile than before.

"Not fear," Andrew replied, a faint smile gracing his lips. "Awareness. Respect demands caution, Sir Mordred, and I assure you, we intend to show the utmost respect."

Bedivere interjected, his calm demeanor functioning as a soothing presence.

"Sir Mordred, these envoys have traveled a great distance to stand before the King. Let us honor their intention, as His Majesty wills."

Natasha noticed a slight change in Mordred's stance. Although still skeptical, he appeared somewhat appeased.

The knights of Camelot valued respect and sincerity, and Andrew's words had struck the right chord.

From near the throne, Agravain's voice pierced the silence.

"Intent must be validated by actions, not merely asserted by words. You articulate your thoughts well, Sir Andrew, but trust in this chamber is earned."

He paused momentarily, anger seeping into his tone.

"Especially when someone here dares to lie before His Majesty's throne!"

The atmosphere shifted dramatically.

Tension filled the air, and Natasha's instincts urged her to brace for conflict.

Each knight in the room assumed an imposing position, their hands twitching near their weapons, their gazes sharp and unwavering.

Sir Andrew Farrow stiffened but maintained his composure, though his diplomatic demeanor slightly wavered under the strain.

Meanwhile, Sir Richard's previous excitement faded, replaced by a pale sense of nervousness.

Even Professor Marlowe, typically unobtrusive in his silence, seemed to shrink under the weight of the knights' hostility.

Natasha's eyes darted to Sir Agravain.

His expression was now a storm of cold fury.

Whatever had triggered this reaction, it was clear he believed it a grave offense.

"Sir Agravain," Andrew began, his tone calculated, "if anything I've said has offended you, I assure you it was unintentional. Please, clarify any misunderstanding so that we can rectify our mistake."

For a brief moment, it felt as though he could see through her disguise.

(and we done for today... or are we?)

Alright, so king meet spy, what could happen next?

Anyway, my dear Arthuria isn't acting like saber you say? well why thank you, I was indeed going for something a little different. 

Rather then talking as an equal, she is very much going for speaking like a king. she tried the first thing, didn't work out, trying something new now.

plus Arthuria saber remember the feast of kings, and that did make an impact on her, getting told she was wrong, yeah, that isn't easy.

So she isn't saber, she isn't a servant, she is a ruler, a king, a goddess, and she will at times act like that.