Merlin's Conscience and Uther's Morality!

No. There was too much she had yet to do! She had to live! Live to quell the rebellion and reclaim her father's throne!

At last, that obsession etched deep into her bloodline and soul made the princess, trapped in desperate straits, draw a deep breath. She picked up a longsword and bow from the corpses of several black-clad cavalrymen nearby, hugged them to her chest, and looked ahead with resolute eyes.

Not until dusk did the blood-soaked figure stagger out of the dense forest. Her once fair, flawless skin was now covered in wounds of every size, the torn flesh and congealed blood already stuck fast to her clothes.

Every step the Witch took tugged at her wounds, as though she were dancing upon knife edges.

At last, whether after a moment or half a century, the body sustained solely by willpower painstakingly dragged itself to the lakeshore before finally giving out and collapsing into the icy water.

The bone-piercing cold washed over the flesh of her wounds and seeped into her blood and marrow, as if even her soul were gradually freezing solid.

Yet at the same time, the nourishment of the water and the rhythm of nature slowly restored magical power to that battered shell.

Amid the agony of ruin and rebirth, the butterfly finally broke free of its cocoon.

The drenched Witch crawled ashore, draped in clothes stripped from her pursuers. Looking down the long road ahead, she murmured softly.

She had survived...

It was time to set out again...

The battered British Witch set out once more, searching for the lords of the southern lands who had once rallied beneath her father Uther's banner, hoping to gain their aid.

Yet every plea was met with another refusal.

Cornwall.

"Sir Ector, you are Britain's most honorable