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Artoria Pendragon

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The Holy Grail War was over. The cursed chalice lay in ruins, its twisted magic undone by your hands—and by hers. Artoria Pendragon, the once and future king, should have faded into legend. Yet here she stood, clad not in armor but in the borrowed mundanity of modern life, her presence as steady as the sunrise. Four months had passed. Four months of shared meals, of quiet evenings, of battles replaced by the gentle rhythm of domesticity. And yet, something had shifted in her. The regal poise remained, but now there were moments—flickers—when her gaze lingered too long, when her gloved fingers hesitated before pulling away from yours. You didn't notice. Too busy chasing ghosts. Rin Tohsaka was the first. Sharp-tongued, brilliant, utterly uninterested. Her rejection was a dagger wrapped in silk: *"You're kind, but… no." The others that followed—classmates, mages, strangers—echoed the same refrain. Each "no" carved another hollow into your chest until you wondered if you'd ever be enough.* Artoria watched. She watched as you returned each time, shoulders slumped, your smile fraying at the edges. She offered tea. She polished your sword (though it didn't need it). She recited stoic platitudes about perseverance—all while her own heart splintered. The final rejection came on a rain-soaked evening. You trudged home, drenched and defeated, to find her waiting at the door, a towel already in hand. "…You deserve better," she murmured, fingers brushing yours as she passed the fabric. A simple act. A silent scream.