Morgan decided not to watch the fate of the outmaneuvered garrison commander.
He probably died with grievances unavenged.
Falling into Merlin's hands while still in a state of hostility—there was no way he wouldn't be schemed to death.
Lot and Morgan turned their attention to the next phase of their plan.
Morgan asked Lot: "Now that we've taken Vortigern's territory, do you think he'll still charge straight into our ambush ?"
"Why wouldn't he?" Lot replied. "We've captured the fortress, but Vortigern knows even less now. Since we've already taken it, we can make the situation seem even more precarious."
[Playing both the hero and the villain, with myself as the mastermind behind it all… Ah, I really am working too hard.]
He couldn't help but preen inwardly.
Sure, these were all your ideas, but you've mostly just been standing around watching, haven't you?
The actual execution was handled by—
…Well then, Horndog, you have been working hard.
You basically handled everything. Truly, your contributions are immense.
Only slightly less than mine, of course.
[So I've decided. After this war ends, I'll have Morgan thoroughly comfort my exhausted body. Hmm, maybe seven days and nights without leaving bed…]
Morgan mentally rolled her eyes.
Seriously, Horndog? You claim to be exhausted, yet you're already planning to stay in bed for a week?
Are you tired or not tired?
If this war doesn't end satisfactorily, I'm not agreeing to anything.
With that thought, Morgan picked up a cup of hot water.
She stirred in some medicinal herbs—remedies she'd learned from the local witches of Orkney.
They were excellent for restoring one's energy.
Horndog, drink this. Afterward, we'll rest properly in Vortigern's castle.
And don't get any funny ideas.
If we're resting, then we're sleeping.
I'm not indulging you.
The messenger had performed his duty admirably.
Just as Vortigern was finalizing his assault on the Camelot, a flood of desperate couriers burst in.
"Your Majesty, disaster! The Romans have crossed the sea and attacked our fortress! You must return with the army at once!"
Vortigern had been in council with his generals.
Hearing this, the commanders shot to their feet.
They hadn't even launched their attack, and now the Romans were striking from behind?
Rumor had it the Romans spared no one—no, wait, that they had no honor toward non-Romans. If they saw an opportunity, they'd never let it slip.
Were they trying to reclaim Britain while Vortigern was distracted?
As these thoughts swirled, Vortigern's gaze fixed on the messenger like a lightning strike.
"Then… is he an enemy spy?"
One general pointed accusingly at the trembling messenger.
The man nearly wet himself.
"No. I mean this is all King Uther's scheme. I guarantee those 'Romans' are Uther's forces. This is a ploy to divert our attack. The true Romans have neither the time nor interest to meddle with this island now."
Vortigern spoke with absolute certainty.
"Then, Your Majesty, what should we do?"
"Once we take the Camelot, the rear won't matter."
"Our families are back there—"
"I'm aware." Vortigern nodded slightly.
Just as the generals thought he might reconsider—
"Which is why we strike with full force. Leave Uther no breathing room."
The commanders wanted to protest further, but one look at Vortigern's frigid eyes froze the words in their throats.
It was like staring into the gaze of a vicious white dragon.
For now, none dared oppose him.
But Vortigern knew—if this dragged on, their loyalty might waver.
The next assault would demand his full strength.
He would crush Uther.
He would conquer all of Britain.
And he would prolong the Age of Gods.
"Even at their worst, my men wouldn't lose a fortress in mere days."
Vortigern refused to believe any garrison of his could fall so easily—not without siege equipment, at least.
"I swear, I didn't hide these on me!"
"Take it back! You can have this gold too!"
"Oh dear, that won't do~ You promised everything. If you held back, that's a breach of contract~"
"I demand to see your leader!"
"Just accept your fate. Think of all those you've robbed—today's outcome is only fair."
Lot and Morgan impassively watched Merlin drag the garrison commander away for "neutralization."
Then they turned toward Vortigern's treasury.
Time to see how much wealth he'd hoarded.
At the vault's entrance, they stepped inside—
And were met with a blinding spectacle.
Chests overflowing with pearls and gemstones.
A dragon's trove in every sense.
"Damn. Was your father this rich too?"
Lot squinted against the glare, momentarily stunned.
Dragons had certain… habits.
A love of treasure ranked high among them.
Vortigern, with his white dragon blood, was no exception.
But if the White Dragon was —what about the Red Dragon?
"My father wasn't nearly as wealthy as Vortigern."
Morgan shook her head.
Then, catching his implication, she narrowed her eyes.
"…You're not thinking of robbing him, are you?"
Lot looked up innocently at the sky.
Ah, what a beautifully blue day.
But after a moment, she too stroked her chin in thought.
"Maybe we should check my father's vaults sometime…"
Some traits, it seemed, ran deep in the Pendragon bloodline.