After subtly coaxing the location of Queen Guinevere's chambers from a few unsuspecting maids, Aslan made his way there without delay. He minimized his presence as much as possible, slipping silently through the castle's inner corridors. As King Arthur's queen, Guinevere resided in the most secure and elevated quarters of the royal city.
It was a place considered safe beyond question—so well-guarded that even in times of crisis, no enemy would reach it easily. Of course, to the knights of Camelot, such concerns were almost sacrilegious. Camelot was an immortal citadel, a bastion of glory that would never fall.
After surveying the corridor to ensure it was empty save for a maid busy with her cleaning, Aslan gently knocked.
A soft voice replied, "Come in."
Aslan stepped through the doorway and finally laid eyes on the woman who, according to legend, brought about King Arthur's downfall.
Guinevere.
An intelligent woman, idealistic yet touched by naïveté. Perhaps she had once married Arthur out of admiration, but the passage of time—and the truth about Altria's identity—had transformed that feeling into something else. Forgiving Altria, even loving her still, must have come from a desire to preserve peace. She understood how much effort the king had poured into ending the civil war. And she still held Arthur in genuine affection, even if the form of that love had changed.
She had accepted her fate. At the moment she attained what she longed for, she discovered it was only a façade. Was it betrayal? Was it despair? Or was it sympathy for a king caught in the same trap?
Likely… all of the above.
Even after learning the truth, Guinevere had continued to support the king. To the world, she was still the honored queen, and theirs was a marriage blessed by all. But inside, she was like a bird in a gilded cage.
The king often worried aloud, "What are you thinking, Altria? As a woman, what reward could you even hope for?" But Guinevere could only return the smile—a smile that was barely held together.
Their relationship might have been a lie, but the friendship between them was genuine. That bond of trust was strong enough that others mistook it for marital harmony.
"Are you here to bring a midnight snack? You've worked hard, young knight."
Guinevere smiled softly, her eyes filled with gentle warmth. Not personal warmth—rather, the kindness of a sovereign toward one of her husband's knights. She was, after all, the mistress of those who served the king. And since she could not march onto the battlefield herself, she could only rely on these knights to be Arthur's shield and sword.
Of course, in most battles, it was Arthur who protected them.
"Come to think of it, your features resemble the king's. I'm sure you'll become a powerful knight in time."
Aslan paused, his heart slightly unsettled by her words. But this was ultimately Altria's business, not his. Even if he was her cousin, it wasn't his place to interfere. Was he supposed to offer comfort to Guinevere in Arthur's stead?
A ridiculous thought. Even if he and Guinevere had a child, the child would have royal blood—and possibly look enough like Arthur to pass as legitimate. But Aslan wasn't some scheming warlord. He had no desire to invite bloodshed or succession crises.
Taking a deep breath, Aslan dismissed the magical disguise on his hair and eyes. His features, uncannily similar to Altria's, now fully revealed, he began to weave a suggestion spell once more—enhanced by his resemblance.
"Guinevere," he said gently, "look into my eyes. I am Altria Pendragon. Give me the key to the treasury. And forget everything."
The spell, learned from Morgan and refined through practice, took effect almost instantly. Guinevere's eyes fluttered. She looked confused, even mildly resistant—but the magic held. Gradually, her expression softened.
Aslan stepped forward and gently embraced her, bringing his lips close to her ear. He spoke in a voice that was soft, low, and tinged with that peculiar pride only Altria carried.
"Give me the key, Guinevere…"
She trembled. Whether from conflict or yearning, it was impossible to say. But she did not break the spell.
Perhaps it was shameful—this use of trickery just to gain access to a vault. But Aslan was still something of an outsider in Camelot, still not fully attuned to the rhythms and loyalties of this world. He was no perfect saint. He couldn't make every decision cleanly. And perhaps that was fate's intention: the more entangled Aslan became with Camelot, the more inseparable he would become from its people.
Key in hand, Aslan quietly left the room. Only once he was far away did he understand the hint behind Guinevere's final gaze.
Shortly after he departed, Sir Lancelot arrived.
As one of the few who knew the truth about the king's gender, Lancelot had grown deeply concerned about the queen's state of mind. Without consulting anyone, he had taken it upon himself to act as her confidant and emotional support.
Guinevere, meanwhile, sat quietly in her room. The magic had lifted. She could not recall what had just happened—but an empty, aching feeling lingered in her chest. She told herself that the visitor had not been Altria, had not been her king. It must have been someone else… a man.
And yet…
Her heart whispered otherwise.
Suppressing her thoughts, she took a deep breath and put on her stately expression once more.
"Your Majesty," came the voice of a guard, "Sir Lancelot requests an audience."
Guinevere smiled, the perfect picture of poise and warmth. "Please, let him in."
Aslan would never know what subtle ripple he had caused in Guinevere's heart. And even if he did… he might not care. To him, Guinevere was still just a stranger. Only one person currently mattered to him.
Melusine.
When Aslan arrived at the treasury, the guards had already been knocked unconscious by his own dragon. Not harmed—just resting, slumped as if lazily dozing off.
Aslan smiled at the sight and turned to Meluseen. She was wearing a provocative magical costume, her expression softening now that he had returned.
This blend of power, innocence, and yearning—this was the side of Melusine that stirred him most deeply.