"Bedivere, Your Majesty, leave the dragons on the flanks to you."
Pindo had gone to support Percival, who was trapped deep within the enemy lines. Three remained on the front. Watching Lancelot fall from the sky, Anno did not turn his head, merely speaking to those on either side of him.
"Understood." Bedivere was succinct, his expression stern. The mechanisms in the arm Leonardo da Vinci had made whirred as he gripped his sword, his eyes filled with curiosity and fighting spirit.
"...I leave him to you, Sir Anno." There was a trace of complexity in Artoria's gaze, but only a trace. She nodded and no longer paid attention to the falling Lancelot.
"Mm." Anno nodded, looked at the sword in his hand, and sighed.
It seemed that, in his overwhelming rage and sorrow, he had forgotten something.
Sheathing Chalk, Anno clapped his hands together and walked straight ahead.
Once, after making a mistake, Lancelot had been punished by King Arthur.
At the time, it had been King Arthur's wedding. Because of his personal emotions, Lancelot had cast aside a knight's decorum and chosen to vent his feelings by getting drunk. He had happened to encounter Tristan, who had come outside the city to join the festivities, and had promptly started fighting him.
There had originally been nothing particularly wrong with that. Even drunkenness was not considered a grave offense. Quite a few knights had gotten drunk at King Arthur's wedding, and besides, Tristan had not been a Briton then. He had merely been the wandering prince of King Mark.
But the wandering Tristan had someone at his side.
Iseult, a princess of a small Irish kingdom. Even if it was a small kingdom, even if it was Ireland, she was still a princess. Though she had run away from