The Last cohort

A CROWN OF DISCORD

The return to Caer Leon was not a triumph. They brought no spoils, no new shard, only a grim report and a dozen dazed, traumatized Demetae villagers who clung to the memory of Morganna’s golden light like drowning men to a raft. The sight of their queen leading these former enemies through the gates sent a ripple of unease through the assembled army.

The council reconvened in the great hall, but the air had changed. The unified purpose was gone, replaced by a thick, suspicious tension. The Demetae incident was a c***k in their foundation, and fear seeped through it.

Chieftain Cynfor was the first to voice it, his face like thunder. “This changes everything. The Fomorii do not just break our walls; they break our wills. How do we fight an enemy that can turn our own kin into puppets? How can we trust the man next to us if his mind could be stolen between one breath and the next?”

A Roman legate from the Legio II Augusta, a proud man named Cassius, nodded in grim agreement. “Our strength is discipline. Order. This… this sorcery undermines the very principle of the legion. Can your Druidic arts even detect this corruption before it takes hold?” He directed the question at Archdruid Gwynn.

Gwynn’s expression was stoic, but his hands trembled slightly on his staff. “It is a subtle poison. It requires proximity and a focused will to detect. We cannot screen an entire army.”

“Then we are fighting blind!” a Brigante chieftain shouted, slamming his tankard on the table. “I will not have my warriors sharing a camp with men who might suddenly turn on them with glassy eyes!”

The interactivity was no longer about strategy, but about survival and blame. The alliance was fracturing before it had even faced its true enemy.

Hrothgar, his arms still aching from deflecting the Disciple’s bolt, stood and let out a contemptuous snort that silenced the room. “You squabble like gulls over a dead fish. The enemy shows a new claw, and you want to hide in your shells. The Roman boy and the Druid found the sickness and cut it out. The Queen’s light healed the wound. This is not a reason to fear. It is a reason to strike faster, before they learn to make a better poison!”

“The Saxon speaks sense,” Marcus said, stepping forward. He was weary, his body aching from the constant strain, but his voice was calm and logical, a rock in the churning sea of fear. “The Fomorii used a subtle tool because they fear our unity. They attack our trust because it is our greatest weapon. To retreat now, to isolate ourselves, is to hand them the victory without a fight.”

But the seed of doubt had been planted. A chieftain from the Ordovices, a tribe known for its reclusive and suspicious nature, pointed a bony finger at Bran. “And what of him? The Exile. He used the dark magic to find this… this puppeteer. How do we know he is not a puppet himself? How do we know this is not a deeper game, that he leads us into a trap?”

All eyes turned to Bran. He stood silently in the corner, looking older than his years, the weight of their suspicion a physical force pressing down on him. He said nothing. He had no defense they would accept.

It was Morganna who rose to her feet. The Crown of the Covenant seemed to gleam with a colder light. The pressure in the room intensified, not from fear, but from the weight of her authority.

“You look for traitors in the shadows,” she said, her voice low but carrying to every corner of the hall. “You question the loyalty of a man who has bled for this cause, who carries a curse so that you might sleep safer in your tents.” She let her gaze sweep over the dissenting chieftains and the worried legate. “You question me.”

She drew the Sword of Britannia. It did not blaze with golden light. Instead, it hummed, a low, resonant frequency that vibrated in the chest, in the bones. It was the sound of the land itself, a note of pure, undeniable truth.

“The Crown I wear does not command your obedience. It forges unity. The Sword I carry does not demand your fear. It protects your future.” She pointed the blade not at them, but at the map of Britannia on the table. “The enemy seeks to crown itself with discord. It seeks to make us its willing servants through paranoia and fear.”

She turned her head, and her gaze fell upon the Demetae villagers huddled near the entrance, their eyes clear now, filled with a mixture of shame and awe. “They were victims. Not enemies. And we saved them. That is who we are. That is what we fight for.”

She then looked directly at the skeptical Ordovice chieftain. “You ask how you can trust the man next to you? Look at him. Is he Roman? Is he Celt? Is he Saxon? It does not matter. He is Britannic. And he stands between your family and the end of all things. That is the only truth that matters.”

The humming of the sword faded. A profound silence filled the hall. Morganna’s words, amplified by the sword’s power, had not shouted down their fears, but had quieted them. She had not presented a new tactical plan. She had reforged their purpose.

Archdruid Gwynn was the first to kneel. “The Pendragon speaks with the voice of the land,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion no one could name. “I hear, and I obey.”

One by one, the other chieftains and officers followed, until only Legate Cassius remained standing. He looked at Morganna, at the simple silver circlet and the sword that was now dormant, then at the resolute faces of Marcus and Hrothgar. He gave a sharp, Roman nod.

“The Legio II Augusta stands with the Britannic Cohort,” he declared. “For Rome, and for Britannia.”

The immediate crisis was averted. The crown of discord had been refused.

But as the council dispersed to prepare for the next move, Marcus approached Morganna. The strain of channeling such a profound, unifying power was visible on her face.

“They will question you again,” he said quietly. “Fear is a w**d that grows back.”

“I know,” she replied, her shoulders slumping slightly now that she was out of the public eye. “But we have bought time. The fourth shard still calls. We must retrieve it before the Fomorii devise a corruption we cannot cure.”

Bran approached them, his head still bowed. “The shard’s call is stronger now. It screams from the south. The Sunken City… the Drowned God stirs. And he is angry.”

The political battle was won, for now. But the real war was calling them back into the field, to a drowned city and a waking god. The crown was secure, but the weight of it was pulling their queen toward ever deeper and darker waters.