Synopsis: In Merlinâs lab, theory meets catastrophe in a test that redefines innovation. Kingsman may have built one Merlin, but somehow they ended up with two. And one of them likes fire.
Content warnings: lab hazards, reckless experimentation, humor under pressure, themes of mentorship and innovation vs. impulse control, Crown being a menace
Word Count: 524 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
The Round Table was used to innovation.
Merlinâs lab had always been the birthplace of brillianceâquiet hums and sudden brilliance wrapped in mint tea and offhanded sarcasm.
But today?
Today was different.
Today, Merlin was standing in front of them at the weapons bay with a satisfied gleam in his eye, flanked by several armored cases and a whiteboard already cluttered with impossibly dense notes and hand-sketched diagrams.
And beside him,
Perched on a workbench, legs swinging, coffee in one hand and absolute chaos in her eyes,
Was Crown.
âAlright,â Merlin began, tone clipped, efficient. âThe new upgrades are reactive. Armor coatingâs density adjusts on impact based on heat signature and kinetic velocity. Field tests confirm 63% faster recovery from ballistic strikes and full resistance against subthermal ignition. Donât ask me what that means in plain English. If you canât read the chart, you donât get to use the toys.â
âCharts are pretty,â Gawain muttered, half to himself. âThe real question is if it breaks.â
The moment Merlin opened his mouth Crown slid off the bench.
She snatched Lancelotâs sidearm clean off his thigh holster in one smooth, practiced move.
He blinked. âDid you justâ?â
Bang.
The bullet hit the center of the test plate mounted on the dummy rig, sparking clean off the armorâs core plate.
Bang.Another shot. Higher velocity.
Bang.A thirdâaimed low, sharp, meant to test fracture points.
Every Knight flinched.
Except Arthur.
Arthur tilted his head slightly, arms crossed.
Not stopping her.
Just watching.
Crown paused, checked the monitor feedback.
âNo cracks. No thermal deviation. You win this round, Lazul.â
Merlin didnât even lift his head from his tablet.
âStop shooting my prototypes, Wyvern.â
She scrunched her nose, mock-innocent.
âI didnât set anything on fire.â
âBecause you were banned.â
âUnfairly.â
âYou tried to test flammability by aiming a drone into the engine room.â
She rolled her eyes. âIt was one fire.â'
Arthur exhaled sharply.
Not quite a laugh.
But his shoulders shifted, just enough for the Knights to clock it.
Galahad stared at Crown like she was a walking HR liability.
Percival took a careful step back from the test rig.
Gawain, eyes wide, leaned toward Bedivere.
âMate⌠Sheâs another Merlin.â
Bedivere, blinking at the shattered impact plate, replied:
âBut with worse impulse control.â
Tristan murmured, âShe doesnât test tech. She fights it.â
Lancelot just frowned and looked at his holster. âSheâs the reason I triple-buckle everything.â
Merlin didnât argue.
Just scrawled another note on the chart and added, dryly:
âI had one brain. Now I have two. One just happens to enjoy property damage.â
Crown raised her cup. âTo innovation.â
Merlin toasted her with his tablet stylus.
Arthur shook his head, half-smiling.
âAs long as it holds in the field.â
âIt will,â they said in unison.
And for a moment, it was clearâ
Kingsman didnât just have Merlin anymore.
They had two.
Two minds.
One precise, composed, strategic.
The other relentless, chaotic, and utterly unwilling to let tech leave the lab until it survived her.
And the Round Table?
They adjusted.
Because with Crown and Merlin at the helm of innovation, their gear didnât just evolve.
Synopsis: A field report in six parts. Five moments where chaos saved the day, and one that reminded the Round Table they were more than soldiersâthey were a team.
Content warnings: pseudo-military violence, explosions, injury mentions, tactical improvisation, mild alcohol use, inerberation, found-family camaraderie.
Word Count: 1437 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
1. The Ambush at Blackridge Pass
The wind howled through the canyon, carrying dust and the low growl of approaching engines.
The Knights held positionâLancelot crouched on the north ridge with Percival covering his six, Galahad and Bedivere in overwatch, with Arthur at the centerâevery movement precise.
The mission appeared straightforward: intercept the convoy carrying kidnapped diplomats, secure their release, and escape before enemy reinforcements arrived.
Yet Crown, crouched beside Merlin in the cramped mobile command truck, felt a knot of unease. Her sharp eyes were fixed on the topographical map spread out before them, tracing the convoyâs route.Â
The plotted pattern seemed too deliberate, almost like someone was putting on a show.
âThey know weâre here,â she muttered.
Arthurâs voice crackled in. âExplain.â
She tapped the screen. âLead vehicleâs hanging back. It should be up front and sweeping. Theyâve already cleared the canyon and are waiting for us to hit first.â
Silence.
âLancelot, Percivalâhold fire. Galahad, scan the upper ridge.â
Three seconds.
Galahadâs voice dropped. âSix snipers. High ground. Weâd have walked right into it.â
Arthur's glance toward Crown, viewed through the drone feed, was brief but charged.
âAdjusting plan.â
They allowed the convoy to roll smoothly into the designated kill zone, a carefully calculated trap woven into the rugged terrain.Â
As the lead truck, its tires crunching over gravel, crossed the marked trigger point, Crown, cloaked in shadows, gave a subtle nod of confirmation. In an instant, Bedivere, perched tensely on the ridge above, pressed the detonator with steely resolve.
The ensuing rockslide was nothing short of surgical, a deliberate orchestration of chaos.Â
Boulders, each the size of small cars, plummeted down from the steep canyon walls, crashing with thunderous roars and effectively sealing the escape route behind the convoy.Â
The dust settled and the Knights descended from their vantage points with chilling precision. Clad in dark tactical gear, they moved like phantoms, swiftly neutralizing hostiles before any could muster the resolve to regroup.Â
The silence that followed was palpable, broken only by the distant echoes of falling debris and the soft rustle of the wind through the canyon, a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.
The target never knew what hit him.
As the dust cleared, Percival clapped her back. âLucky you overthink.â
She didnât look up. Just scrunched her nose at him. âItâs not luck. Just pattern recognition.â
2. The Undercover Operation Gone Wrong
Crown had glided through a hundred galas like this: full to the brim with power games behind silk gloves and vintage wine, secrets whispered between toasts.
Tonight, she played the part of an arms brokerâpoised, elusive, dangerous. While Gawain, all charm and calculated menace, played her partner.
The aim tonight: Gather intel and nick a small trophy from an identified black arms dealer.
But their mark, a veteran with a kill streak longer than his rĂŠsumĂŠ, wasnât biting.
Too careful. Too still. Watching Gawain too closely.
Then it clicked. His eyes narrowed, just slightly. Recognition.
âCoverâs blown,â she murmured, brushing Gawainâs wrist like a casual touch.
He didnât flinch. âHow do you want to play it?â
She turned to the dealer with a smile, leaning in as if about to whisper something scandalous.
âYou know,â she said lightly, âthe last time I attended one of these, someone tried to poison me. Terrible business.â
She plucked Gawainâs drink from his handâslim crystal, amber liquidâand downed a sip.
The dealerâs eyes locked on hers.
She didnât blink. Wouldn't be the first time she rolled the dice for poison.
âA shame,â The mark said finally. âWouldnât want to bring too much excitement to work functions though.â
âMe too,â Crown said smoothly. âIt was briefly entertaining at the very least.â
The tension cracked. The conversation flowed. The mark relaxed.
Later, slipping into a stolen sedan with intel in the glove box, Gawain gave her a look. âYouâre insane.â
She didnât slow. âAnd you adore it.â
3. The Sniperâs Dilemma
It was supposed to be clean.
Tristan had the target in his sightsâa high-ranking operative moving through the compound. One clean shot would drop a key operative and clear the way for the infiltration team.
The target moved into position.Â
But then, out of nowhere, a child darted into view. Kicking a ball, oblivious to what was unfolding.
His finger hovered. Breath steady. Scope unblinking.
âCrown.â
She was nearby, perched two rooftops over. She saw it, too.
âWait,â she whispered.
Arthurâs voice cut in, sharp. âYou lose this chanceââ
âI know.â
She was already moving.
Descending the aging fire escape, she leaped onto the scaffold like an agile cat, its metal frame creaking under her weight.Â
In her mad dash, she intentionally toppled a precarious stack of rusted metal crates, the loud clang echoing through the stillness of the courtyard.Â
Instantly, the compound erupted into chaosâblaring alarms pierced the air, accompanied by frantic shouts and the sound of hurried footsteps. Â
The child ran.Â
The target turned.
Tristan pulled the trigger.
One clean shot. Body down. No collateral.
They exfiltrated fast, slipping through the compoundâs outer perimeter before the response team even knew where to look.
Back at the rendezvous, Tristan broke the silence. âThat was reckless.â
Crown buckled in, calm. âIt was calculated.â
He looked over. âYou didnât even hesitate.â
She met his gaze. âNeither did you.â
4. The Cyber Heist
"Remind me why she's here again?" Bedivere muttered, fingers flying over the keys. His screen blinked with firewall layers, each more brutal than the last.
âTo keep you humble,â Merlin replied from his comms feed, voice dry.
They were shoulder to shoulder at the edge of a blacksite server cluster. Bedivere was deep in code, fingers flying, muttering in hex and sarcasm.
Crown leaned closer, her expression annoyingly serene as she watched the screen illuminated by flickering lines of code and flashing red.Â
Bedivere's snapped at her, âYou could help, you know.âÂ
 âI am helping,â Crown pointed at the monitor, her voice steady and calm. âYouâre hammering the gate. That subroutine's nothing but a bluff. The real access is nested three layers deep behind that formidable firewallâThere. Stop right here.âÂ
She pressed her finger against a specific line of code, causing him to abruptly halt his relentless sequence.Â
Crown began tapping in a few additional lines, deftly copying fragments into others. The screen flickered ominously then cleared.
Access granted.
Bedivere froze. â...How.â
âI thought like the guy who built it,â she said, âNot like the guy trying to break it.â
They were cornered in a gutted warehouse, bullets slicing through the air, ricochets too close for comfort. The Knights were down to limited cover and counting seconds.
The extraction team was late.
Arthurâs voice cut through the gunfire. âSuggestions.â
Crown checked her watch. âGive me sixty seconds.â
She was gone before anyone answered.
She slipped into the dark, moving low and fast. Her eyes tracked the layoutâweak points, fuel lines, pre-set explosives she'd planted hours earlier just in case things went awry
She circled behind a loading crane and triggered the detonator.
The far side of the warehouse collapsed inward, taking three enemy flanks with it. Screams and confusion echoed through the structure. What was a trap had become a funnelâand the Knights struck hard.
By the time the extraction team breached the back entrance, it was a clean sweep.
Arthur glanced at the wreckage, then at her. âYou planned that.â
Crown dusted herself off. âDidnât like the layout.â
Galahad exhaled. âOne day, weâre going to have a conversation about what goes on in your head.â
Crown flashed a grin. âYou wonât like it.â
+1: The Time She Made It Fun
Theyâd survived a brutal op. No fatalities, high-value asset extracted, mission success overall. Spirits were high.
So naturally, Percival decided to test the limits of Crownâs humanity.
âYou canât drink me under the table,â he announced at the nearest dive bar. âYou may be a tactical savant, but I outweigh you by eighty pounds.â
âBold,â Crown replied, already flagging down the bartender.
The Knights circled them like gamblers at a prizefight.
Thirty minutes in, Lancelot was already filming. An hour in, Percivalâs vision stared to blur.
âSwear, I think you drugged me,â he said, slumped over the bar.
âIâm just better at pacing,â Crown replied, entirely upright.
Arthur stood nearby, arms folded. âIs this going to be a disciplinary issue?â
Merlin handed him a drink. âRelax, Arthur. Itâs team bonding.â
Percival groaned into his glass. âI hate you.â
Crown leaned over, clinked her drink against his forehead. âToo kind, Percy.â
Synopsis: Crownâs first full briefing with the Round Table doesnât go as planned; it goes better. Precision meets improvisation, and for the first time, the storm learns the language of strategy.
Content warnings: professional tension, leadership pressure, tactical discourse, smug pseudo-insubordination, themes of trust and adaptability.
Word Count: 1268 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Location: Kingsman War Room â 0700HTime: Crownâs First Official Briefing with the Round Table
The war room was humming with low-level tension.
Not hostileâjust charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
Arthur stood at the head of the table, stone-faced, as always. Lancelot and Percival leaned against opposite walls, arms crossed. Galahad looked like heâd been practicing indifference, though his hand hovered over his pen. Bedivereâs laptop was already openâhis cursor blinking in an untouched window. Tristan sat motionless, unreadable behind sharp eyes. Gawain had a smile that was too relaxed to be real.
And then Crown stepped in.
White hair swept back, boots silent on the polished floor, expression unreadable. She was early. That threw them. Not smirking. Not sarcastic. Hair half-tied, coffee in one hand, dossier in the other.Â
She didnât bother sitting right away. Just scanned the table once, then the board, then Arthur.
Merlin gave her the smallest nod.
She gave none back but they both understood it. He knew how she moved. And he knew exactly what was about to happen.
Arthur began the briefing.
STRAT BRIEFING â 0730 HOURS
âWeâre running a dual-entry on the Santorini compound,â he says. âPrimary route through the south cliff, secondary via perimeter breach.â
Crown flicks her pen.
âPoint for Clarification.â
Not loud. Not defiant. But the command in it was unmistakable.
Lancelot glanced up without moving. Tristan didnât blink. Bedivere stopped typing mid-keystroke. Galahad looked from Crown to Arthur, but said nothing. Gawain leaned forward a millimeter, then sat back again. Percivalâs eyes narrowedânot suspicious, just reading the room.
Arthurâs pen stilled mid-air.
Crown stepped toward the board.
âYour strategy assumes the target uses a mirrored breach based on their last three runs.â
Arthur gave a slight nod. âItâs consistent with their pattern.â
âBut the pattern ends at their last failure,â she said. âYouâre accounting for repeat behavior from a unit that just lost a quarter of its numbers and went dark for three weeks.â
âThatâs a given.â
âNope. Clarify the timeline. Donât assume weâre all in your head.â She pointed to the western edge of the perimeter, where the patrol data was thinner.
âTheyâll adapt. They have to. Iâd bet money on a westward push with civilian interference to force a split. That blind spot hereââ Crown circled it ââis the most logical chaos entry. And weâve left it lightly netted.â
Arthur was already pulling up the secondary grid.
âWhy split the team?â she asks innocently.
âDiversion.â Arthur doesnât flinch. âForce the opposition to split resources.â
She taps her lip. âExcept the cliff team will be exposed during rappel, and snipers don't ordinarily like messy lines of sight.â
âI can adjust,â Tristan says.
âYou shouldnât have to,â she counters. âWhy are we forcing compromise when Gawain can just mimic the techâs voice and redirect patrols from inside while Bedivere hacks into their security system?â
The room stills.
Gawain, caught mid-sip of his coffee, lowers the mug slowly. âI can do that,â he says, surprised.
âThought so,â Crown replies sweetly. âYouâre better with infiltration than we give you credit for.â
âPercival,â Arthur said without looking up, âWest flank rotation.â
âL-Itâs Light,â Percival sat up a little straighter and tries not to fumble. âOne team, hourly sweep. Low threat rating on the last pass.â
Crown shook her head. âThatâs not enough.â
Then, calmly, âIf they test our predictability, we canât hold that corner without a response team and a sniper anchor. You want them funneled east, not pouring through the back.â
Arthur turned to the board, added a new layer to the map, and didnât dispute her.
He just said, âTristan.â
The sniper spoke for the first time, even-toned. âIâll take the subroof vantage. Three lines of fire. Can compensate if they bring vehicles.â
Crown didnât smile. She just nodded.
Then added, âAnd if they donât bring vehiclesâif they use hostage flow insteadâwe need a plan that doesnât hinge on Lancelot reaching the breach first.â
Still no one spoke. But the room shifted.
Not in protest. In understanding.
âGalahad.â she asked.
He answered, measured. âI can engage lead negotiator delay tactics. Buy time for team movement.â
âGood,â Crown said. âGawainâs voice mimic interference should account for all possible voice access prints.â
âScriptâs ready,â he said. âCan layer in confusion, make them stall or reroute.â
Now she looked at Arthur.
âLet them believe the front is the path of least resistance. But we prepare for a second strike coming behind it. Thatâs the real play.â
Arthur exhalesâbarely. Not annoyed. Calculating.
But he didnât challenge her.
He turned back to the board, adjusted the operation timing by thirty seconds, and said, âConsultant Crownâs revisions stand. Adjust your roles accordingly.â
RECON BRIEFING â 1600 HOURS
Later, they gather in the briefing room. Bedivere's screens flicker with digital layouts. Arthur begins assigning roles, voice smooth, no hesitation.
âPercival, on breach. Lancelot, flank cover. Tristanââ
âNeeds eyes,â Crown interrupts. âYouâre sending the sniper blind.â
Arthur turns to her. âSatellite coverage is narrow.â
âSo put me on the field instead of ghosting me on support. Iâll tag targets and draw fire if it gets loud. Tristan gets precision.â
Tristan tilts his head. âYou want to run with me?â
âOnly if you can keep up,â she says. âBut sure, letâs call it a date.â
A low laugh ripples from Percival. Galahad claps twice in mock applause.
Arthur watches her. Says nothing.
She holds his gaze.
âPermission to update mission strat, Commander?â
â...Granted,â he answers coolly. âBut you clean up the debrief.â
She smiles, all teeth. âOnly for you.â
DOWNTIME â 2130 HOURS
The opâs complete. Theyâre bruised, half-exhausted, but it went exactly as she outlined. Tristan's kill count doubled. Gawain had so much fun impersonating a drunk Greek guard that even Bedivere cracked a smile.
They lounge across mismatched couches, eating whatever passes for dinner. Lancelot is still in his tac vest. Galahadâs barefoot. Merlin is typing in the corner with the weariness of a man whoâs been watching her rewire Arthurâs unit one barb at a time.
Crown has claimed the middle of the largest couch like a queen in a den of wolves.
âSo,â she says lightly, stealing a bite from Percivalâs plate. âWhoâs writing my commendation?â
âNo one,â Arthur mutters from across the room. Heâs seated by the window, gloved and redoing the sutures on Lancelot, but his eyes are warmer than his voice. âYou rewrote half my plan.â
âImproved it,â she corrects. âYouâre welcome.â
Percival grins. âIâll write it if she stops stealing the snacksâ
âYouâre strong. Youâll survive.â
Bedivere passes her a folderâmission diagnostics.
âYou were right,â he says without fanfare.
She pretends to swoon. âSay it again, but slower.â
Tristan huffs a laugh. âArenât you trouble.â
âIâm brilliant,â she replies, sprawled sideways, head almost touching Galahadâs knee. âIt just looks like arrogance on smaller people.â
Gawain, lying upside down on the armrest like an overgrown cat, lifts his head. âYou gonna tell Arthur heâs pretty too, or should we take bets?â
The room freezes.
Crownâs eyes flicker toward the Commander, then back to Gawain.
âI tell him with my silence,â she says, mock-poetic. âAnd my excellent strategy work. And the fact that he hasnât reassigned me.â
Arthur almost smirks as he pulls away from patching up Lanceâs hand by the lounge chair. Doesnât deny it.
Later, when they filed out, still silent, Merlin caught Arthurâs eye from his spot in the back.
Took a sip of tea.
Then smirked.
âFun, isnât it?â he said. âWhen the room gets smarter just because sheâs in it.â
Arthur didnât answer.
But the next day, Crownâs chair was already at the table before she arrived.
Synopsis: Crownâs official partnership with Merlin begins with a simple truth: hurricanes arenât leashed, theyâre charted. The world calls it regulation; Merlin calls it trust.
Content warnings: institutional politics, discussions of control and volatility, loyalty vs. bureaucracy, themes of trust and chosen family, quiet solidarity
Word Count: 284 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
She walks in sharp.
White shirt, boots scuffed from an off-book infiltration yesterday, a pen tucked behind her ear like a weapon.
Merlin is already seated.
Tablet on. Holograms live. Jacket folded. Face unreadable.
She drops into the seat across from him.
âYou had the option to assign someone else.â
He doesnât look up.
âI had options. You only work with me.â
She tilts her head.
âBecause Iâm special?â
Now he looks up. Slowly. Precisely.
âBecause no one else is qualified to control a force of nature.â
A pause. Then, cool and measured:
âYou donât train a hurricane. You chart its path.
You donât muzzle a blade. You hone it.â
Her mouth quirks into a quiet smile. âAwh. You called me a natural disaster..â
âI called you my natural disaster.â
She stills.
He leans forward. âYou donât get leash work, Wyv. You get tethered. To me.âAnd when Command starts wondering why I bent protocol, I want you to remember one thingââ
He pulls up the file. Her name, her background. Redacted in places even she canât access.
ââI asked for you.â
âAnd you donât ask for anything.â
âI donât need to. But I chose you.â
The day after, Command accepts the fact a living enigma walks Kingsmanâs halls.
No one questions the pairing.
Because who the hell tells Merlin Lazul what he canât do?
He has final clearance on systems that would cripple global defense grids.
And now heâs tethered himself to a consultant who doesnât even wear a Kingsman pin.
Why?
Because he knows what she is.
Because he built the game board, and sheâs the only one who moves pieces he canât predict.
Synopsis: A quiet evening at a pub turns into the Knightsâ most unorthodox gathering yet. Crown arrives as more than a rumor, and the team finds themselves dragged into a dinner none of them expected. Between shared food, sharp banter, and too many side-glances, the Round Table begins to realize they are no longer bracing for her exit. Instead, they are bracing for the possibility that she might stay.
Content warnings: social tension, team dynamics under strain, strong language, rivalry and attraction, themes of belonging and found family, Arthurâs composure tested by Crownâs boldness, a lot of tension
Word Count: 3214 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
HQ â 19:13
Percival sat at the edge of the couch in the ready room, flipping a protein bar between his hands like he was deciding whether or not to commit to dinner.
Bedivere hadnât looked up from his screen in twenty minutes.
Then he paused.
âMerlin just left,â Bedivere said.
Percival grunted. âAnd?â
âOn time.â
That got Percivalâs attention.
He turned.
Bedivere was still staring at the door like it had said something rude. âAnd he was...dressed.â
âHeâs always dressed for Command meetings,â Percy said, confused.
Bedivere didnât blink. âSaid âcatching up with a contact.â And smiled.â
The two of them sat there for a moment in increasingly suspicious silence.
Then Bedivere opened the team group chat and fired off a message.
[Bedivere]: Merlin just left HQ on time
[Bedivere]: Heâs wearing his nice blazer.
[Percival]: he SMILED on the way out
[Gawain] Forreal???
[Lancelot]: Iâm concerned
[Galahad]: So either the second coming is upon us or heâs meeting someone
[Tristan]: I wasnât even aware romance came preloaded in his system.
Pub â 19:26
The watering hole wasnât fancy, but it was neutral ground.
Lancelot and Tristan had been dragged there by two other unit heads, half-listening to someone gripe about quarterlies and gear shortages.
Tristan nursed a pint. Lancelot was making slow work of a whiskey.
Then Lancelot blinked. Sat up straighter.
âElbows down,â he muttered.
Tristan followed his line of sight.
Across the pub, tucked into a corner booth, sat a white-haired woman with her legs crossed at the ankle and a bowl of fries between her hands.
Crown.
Dressed down in a slouchy jacket and civilian boots, expression blankly curious, like sheâd wandered into the bar by accident and stayed out of spite.
The table was set for two.
She dipped a fry into hummus. Ate it. Scrolled through her phone.
âSheâs not supposed to be here,â Lancelot hissed.
âIs she ever supposed to be anywhere?â Tristan asked.
Lancelot reached slowly for his phone.
âDonât,â Tristan said, but too late.
Lance lifted the camera. Focused. Tried to snap a quick photo from across the room.
At the exact second before the shutter clicked, Crown turnedâdeadpanâand posed. One eyebrow arched. Chin tilted.
Lancelot yelped and dropped the phone.
Tristan barely caught it.
The group chat lit up instantly.
[Lancelot]: SHEâS HERE
[Lancelot]: CORNER BOOTH PUB 12
[Lancelot]: TABLE FOR TWO SHEâS EATING FRIES
[Tristan]: She posed for the camera. He dropped the phone. It was very embarrassing.
[Galahad]: she WHAT
[Gawain]: I THOUGHT SHE VANISHED
[Percival]: what do you MEAN âposedâ
[Bedivere]: i KNEW something was off
[Percival] well shite, I NEED to see this
Tristan looked up again just in time to see the door open.
Merlin walked in.
Wearing his blazer with actual buttons and no tablet in sight.
Crown stood up, calm as ever. She walked up to him like this was routine.
Merlin raised a hand and gave her a light karate-chop to the top of the head.
She pouted.
Rubbed her scalp like it stung. Then stole his phone.
Tristan and Lancelot watched, stunned, as Crown led Merlin back to the booth, pointed at the plate of food like she was giving him an assignment, and watched until he took a bite.
Merlin didnât argue. He ate.
Then he said something, and even from across the pub, they could hear the fondness in his voice:
âYour cookingâs still better.â
Tristan flinched.
Lancelot made a strangled sound in his throat.
[Lancelot]: âŚI think we figured out who Merlin was meeting.
[Percival]: NO
[Bedivere]: Called it
[Gawain]: WAIT I'M COMING OUT OF MY MEETING I WANT TO SEE THIS
[Tristan]: i think weâre witnessing courtship
[Galahad]: domestic espionage??? On my Wednesday evening??
[Lancelot]: i want off this team
[Percival]: she is going to kill us and make it look like an accident
[Bedivere]: she probably already has the plan written out
Lancelot looked over at Tristan, pale.
Tristan just took a slow sip of his pint and said:
âMaybe letâs pretend we didnât see this.â
Party at Corner Booth 12
The Knights didnât sit together.
Not officially.
Lancelot leaned against the bar with a half-finished drink and a very intentional line of sight.
Tristan had migrated to a high-top with a direct angle on the back booth.
Gawain claimed the stool nearest the door, legs stretched like a man who could relax if he wanted to. He didnât.
Galahad was âreadingâ a drinks menu he had memorized.
Bedivere hadnât even ordered anythingâjust held his phone and occasionally looked at nothing.
Percival stood near the arcade corner, pretending to be engaged by a dart game.
All of them were listening.
They didnât have to strain.
Crown and Merlin sat in the far booth. Back wall, biggest table in the room.Â
A plate of hummus and fries sat between them.Â
Her jacket was shrugged off, sleeves pushed up. Merlinâs collar was undone. Both had drinks they werenât touching.
âI wasnât even supposed to be there,â Crown was saying.
Merlin raised a brow. âNo?â
âFlew in for something last-minute. Was meant to head out next week. Was only gonna drink a few then pop on out but I... noticed your drones.â
âYou always were nosy.â
She scrunched her nose at him. âYou painted them black against the midnight blue sky. What did you think would happen?â
Lancelot flinched like sheâd aimed it at him.
Tristan sipped his beer. Didnât blink.
âThis wasnât your op,â Merlin said.
Crown shook her head. âGot invited by a high society sorority girl. Saw the pattern. Recognized your tech. Got curious.â
She plucked another fry off the plate and popped it into her mouth. Casual.
âAnd then?â
She shrugged. âSaw how bad it was going. Decided to help.â
There was a pause. Not tenseâjust quiet.
âI saw the feed after,â Merlin said.
Her fingers slowed. Just slightly.
âI saw your face when you thought no one was looking. When you realized everyone got out.â
She didnât deny it. Just looked at the fries like they might say something clever if given time.
âTheyâre a solid team,â she said eventually. âSharp. Clean movement.â
âTheyâre not used to chaos.â
âThey handled it.â
Merlin watched her for a long moment.
Not soft. Just steady.
There was something in his posture that hadnât been there since she landed. Something that looked like⌠relief.
He picked up his glass. Sipped.
âOnboarding is in the works,â he said, voice even. âNow that youâve made yourself available, Kingsman wants to formally bring you in as an asset.â
She groaned and dropped her head to the table.
âOh god, more paperwork.â
He reached over and tugged her cheek like an older brother trying not to smile. âDignity, Grayson.â
She muttered something unintelligible into the tabletop.
âSay it like an adult.â
She lifted her head. âFine. I accept your boring bureaucratic offer.â
âGood.â
âAre you gonna be around at the very least?â
âCanât have you galavanting too far without your handler.â
She beams a little from where sheâs cheek planted on the table.Â
He huffs at her fondly.
A pause.
Then: âAre they joining us for dinner?â
Merlin blinked. â...Who?â
Crown tilted her head.
âYou didnât notice?â
He turned slowly.
Caught the precise way Lancelot looked down at his glass.
The way Gawain had gone suspiciously still.
The fact that Tristan hadnât looked away once.
The clatter when Percy dropped all the darts he was holding.
The way Bedivere was half hidden by a pillar but very much staring.
And the way Galahad was still flipping the same page of the drinks menu like it contained state secrets.
Merlin closed his eyes. Let out a sigh.
âTheyâve been listening.â
âOf course theyâve been listening,â Crown said, smug. âThatâs why I got the biggest booth. Youâre all so nosy.â
For Lack of Introduction
They didnât walk over all at once.
It started with Gawain, of course. He slid into the booth like it was a diplomatic maneuver, all grin and false chill, clearly hoping that if he acted casual enough, no one would call it out.
Then Percival followed. Tristan next. Galahad sat down like the seat had been reserved for him. Bedivere ghosted in with a drink he hadnât paid for. Lancelot sat lastâstiff and too quiet.
The energy shifted.
Crown looked up from her fries, chewed slowly, then gave them a small, polite nod.
No handshakes.
Just: âWhat are you all getting?â
There was a beat.
Then Lancelot, ever the brave one, gestured toward Merlin.
âArenât you going to introduce us?â
Merlin didnât look up from his menu.
âYouâve already met.â
Crown smiled faintly at her plate. Dipped another fry in hummus.
They hesitated.
One by one, they began placing orders, awkwardly paging through the menu like it might protect them.
Then the door opened again.
Arthur entered, coat sharp, expression unreadable, eyes scanning the table like he already knew what he was walking into.
He slid into the only open seatâbetween Lancelot and Merlin.
âI saw the group chat,â he said, voice low but level. âFigured this saved me the hassle of trying to contact you.â
Crown didnât miss a beat.
âIf youâre that kind of man,â she said, batting her eyelashes at him, âIâm very good at being chased.â
The table flinched.
Merlin didnât even blink.
He rolled up the menu and smacked her lightly on the back of the head.
âEasy,â he said, then passed the menu to Arthur.
Crown pouted. Rubbed the back of her head like sheâd been mortally wounded.
Arthur accepted the menu without comment.
No one spoke.
Not right away.
But the tension had shifted.
Just slightly.
Like theyâd stopped bracing for her to runâand started bracing for her to stay.
Strategic Tempo
Plates clinked. Drinks shifted. Nobody touched the menus anymore.
They werenât exactly comfortable, but theyâd settled.
Crown was lounging in the corner seat of the booth, arm resting along the back cushion, picking through a bowl of fries like she hadnât just hijacked their mission less than forty-eight hours ago.
Tristan had the edge seat, elbow resting on the table. Gawain was sprawledâstretching his legs under everyoneâs feet like he was owed the space. Galahad sat straight-backed, arms crossed, mouth pinched in thought.
Lancelot was visibly tense. Not combative, just coiled, seated between his Commander and the enigma herself.
Percival leaned forward, his shoulder brushing Bedivereâs, who sat next to him, tablet in one hand, fork in the otherâfood untouched.
Crown didnât seem to notice the weight of the table around her. Or maybe she did, and didnât care.
Tristan nodded toward Merlin, then to her. âSo youâve cooked for him.â
Crown didnât look up. âUnfortunately.â
âDonât ask.â Merlin sighed.
Tristan raised a brow. âCanât be that bad.â
Gawain chuckled. âSeems like heâs still holding a grudge.â
âIâm not,â Merlin said.
âSheâs not denying it,â Galahad added.
Crown dipped another fry in hummus. âHe hated boxed cookies for a week after I made real ones.â
âGirl Scout cookies,â Merlin muttered. âShe made them better than the real thing and ruined all nostalgia.â
âSo just naturally a menace,â Lancelot muttered.
Arthur finally spoke up, eyes never leaving hers.
âYou mapped the op,â he said. Calm. Direct.
Crown raised an eyebrow. âBit blunt, Commander.â
âAm I wrong, Agent Crown?â
Her smile curled at the edge. âYeah. Itâs true.â
Percival leaned in. âHow?â
Crown tilted her head. âYou lot want the short version or long?â
âStart short,â Galahad said.
Crown stretched slightly. Her movements were lazy, but her eyes were alert.
âI read people,â she said. âThatâs it.â
âThatâs it?â Percival asked.
âWhen you break a person down, they stop being unpredictable. Not fully. But enough.â
She pointed at him. âYou lead with your body before your head. Lancelot here feints left even when he thinks he wonât. Galahad stalls when his line breaksâjust a breath too long.â
Galahad scowled. âI do not.â
âYou do,â Merlin said.
Crown gestured to the whole table. âMerlin calls them algorithms. I call them patterns.â
Arthurâs posture didnât shift, but his focus sharpened.
âThe long version?â
âI read the team. The layout. The mark flow. I clocked the drones the moment I turned onto the block. Recognized Merlinâs signature.â
Crownâs voice didnât rise, but her cadence shiftedâmeasured now.
âBugged cameras. Delayed feeds. Tactical misdirection in the wrong places. I knew the op was compromised before I stepped inside.â
âAnd you still stepped in,â Arthur said.
âI didnât care about the gala,â she said simply. âBut I wasnât going to walk away if his team was heading into a kill box.â
She didnât look at Merlin, but everyone else did.
Merlin stared at his drink. Said nothing.
Arthur studied her for a long beat.
âYou predicted the collapse point.â
âI saw your command logic with excellent tools running parallel to broken terrain. You were pushing the right rhythm but half visibility wasnât doing you any favors.â
âAnd you adjusted for it,â Arthur said.
She nodded once. âBefore it cost anyone their life, Commander. Youâre very welcome.â
Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose.
âYou think in overlap.â
âSo do you,â Merlin said.
Arthur looked at him.
Merlin shrugged. âItâs why I didnât have trouble adjusting to you. I was already used to her.â
That landed.
Lancelot leaned back, clearly recalculating.
Percival looked at Crown like sheâd rewritten the floor plan under his boots.
Gawain muttered, âWe were matching her tempo without realizing it.â
Crown smiled. Just a little.
âI didnât write your playbook,â she said. âI just got the gist of it enough to edit the margin notes.â
Arthur leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table.
âYou followed the intent,â he said.
Crown didnât blink.
âI matched it, Commander. Thereâs a difference and youâve seen that yourself in play.â
Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
âThen tell me where I wouldâve cracked.â
She didnât hesitate. â06A.â
He nodded. âGalahadâs fallback.â
âYou flagged it early but didnât open it. Smartâkeeps the path in reserve. But your lock routing was still connected to the external override.â
âIt didnât trigger.â
âNo. Because it was set to trigger after fallback was declared.â
Arthurâs jaw tightened slightly.
âI watched him run toward it,â Crown said. âWatched the delay. The hesitation.â
âYou kicked the other available door open.â
âNot too hard. Thatâd be unladylike.â
Percival made a sound that might have been a laugh.
Arthur glanced at her. âYou saw that moment coming before I did.â
She shrugged. âYou wouldâve seen it half a second later. By then, too late.â
âYou knew Tristan had the angle.â
âI adjusted for it. Saw the corridor line from the room his markâs companions ran out of. He was a variable. You were the constant.â
Arthurâs eyes narrowed just a touch. âI donât usually like my variables making decisions before I call them.â
âWell, I donât usually like watching well-run ops get turned into footnotes.â
That shouldâve landed sharp.
But Arthur didnât flinch.
Instead, he nodded slowly.
âFair.â
At the end of the table, Bedivere cleared his throat. âShe rerouted five enemy patrols with no access to our map. I reviewed it.â
âBecause she didnât use your map,â Merlin said, tone mild. âShe built her own.â
Crown sipped her drink. âYours was three minutes behind real-time in key sectors because of the video feeds looping. You were catching up quickly though, thatâs honestly impressive.â
Arthur studied her. âYour timing is calculated.â
âSo is yours.â
âYour instinct is to interfere.â
âMy instinct,â She leans towards him, âIs to correct.â
Arthur looked at her a beat longer.
âI should hate that.â
âBut you donât,â she said.
The silence that followed was heavyâbut not hostile.
Like the air had thickened around them. Not with tension. With recognition.
The team wasnât just listening anymore.
They were watching something settle.
Something new.
Something aligned.
The Offer on the Table
Arthur set his glass down with quiet precision.
âYouâll be coming in under consultant status,â he said.Â
âThatâs in the blasted paperwork, yes.â
âIf you need adjustments from the team to functionââ
Crownâs expression shifted.
Not sharp. Justâannoyed.
Merlin might have muttered here we go under his breath.
âOh, how generous,â she said, mockingly polite. âGood to know my general impression after my performance is âdelicateâ.â
Arthur raised an eyebrow. âThat wasnât the implication.â
âNo?â She leaned forward, elbow braced on the table, fingers loose around her drink. âBecause it sounded like you lot were asking if I wanted special treatment.â
The rest of the table went very still.
âI donât want accommodation, Commander.â she said. âI donât want anyone shifting around to make space for me. Iâm not here to belong.â
Her gaze locked with his. Calm. Certain.
Arthur didnât react.
No flicker. No tilt of the head. Just a man waiting to see how the next sentence landed.
Crown smiled faintly.
âThereâs no need to impress me, Commander. Iâm not here to outmaneuver your people. Iâm not replacing anyone.â She leaned in just a little. âBut since youâre making it worth my attention, Iâll bite.â
âBottom line here is I want to see where your team breaks.â She continued. âThen Iâll write the parameters to make sure it doesnât happen twice.â
She tilted her head. âOr I want your bestâand Iâll show you how easily I can melt your wax wings.â
That was when it hit the room.
Gawain choked on his drink.
Percivalâs ears flushed pink. He stared hard at the table.
Bedivere looked genuinely offended by how close this sounded to a romantic threat.
Galahad muttered, âNope,â under his breath and sat back with crossed arms.
Lancelot, unfortunately seated directly between Crown and Arthur, looked like someone had locked him in a heat lamp.
Tristan didnât move but he did raise a brow.
Merlin rolled up the pub menu and thwacked her on the shoulder.
âToo strong, Grayson,â he snapped.
Crown didnât flinch. âHe asked.â
Arthur was still looking at her.
Not smiling.
Just... watching.
Not like she was dangerous.
Like she was interesting.
âAlmost smiled,â she said softly.
Arthur didnât confirm.
But he didnât deny it either.
Team GC, Post-Dinner
[Bedivere]: she said wax wings.
[Galahad]: she said it like it was a compliment
[Percival]: was it not???
[Tristan]: i think it was a threat
[Gawain]: why did it SOUND LIKE FLIRTING
[Lancelot]: i was RIGHT THERE.
[Lancelot]:BETWEEN THEM
[Lancelot]: you all owe me hazard pay.
[Gawain]: bold of you to assume you werenât collateral
[Bedivere]: she didnât even blink when Arthur locked eyes
[Galahad]: iâm not built for this level of psychological threat
[Percival]: iâm not convinced they werenât communicating in strategy-speak and emotional violence
[Gawain]: sheâs like if a chessboard wore boots and had cheekbones
[Tristan]: she saw all of us and chose to aim for him.
[Lancelot]: youâre making it worse.
[Merlin]:
[image attachment: Crown at a market, basket full of brownie ingredients]
[Merlin]: congrats. sheâs making brownies
[Merlin]: youâre all going to hate cafĂŠ food for a month
[Bedivere]: iâm not ready
[Galahad]: you mean weâll survive long enough to taste it???
[Percival]: iâll take my chances
[Gawain]: what do you mean âhate cafĂŠ food,â cafĂŠ food isâ
[Merlin]: inferior.
[Tristan]: iâll bring the milk.
[Lancelot]: DO NOT ENCOURAGE HER
A/N: Long Chapter! Thank you so much for sticking around
Synopsis: After a proper encounter with her at the Estavros op, Arthur and Merlin weigh Crownâs place in the Round Table. For Arthur, she undermines the chain of command; for Merlin, she sharpens it. Their private argument leaves Arthur unsettled by how closely her instincts mirror his own. Later, in the rec room, the Knights piece together her impact in their own way. Between dry banter, reluctant admissions, and a kettle gone cold, they begin to recognize that Crown is no longer just a disruptive outsider. She is already shaping the rhythm of the team.
Content warnings: leadership tension, themes of loyalty, trust, and adaptation, Arthurâs restraint under pressure, Merlinâs quiet conviction, found family dynamics, strong language, subtle humor in downtime scenes.
Word Count: 669 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Debrief
The briefing room was quiet.
No screens lit. No feeds running. Just Arthur, seated behind the long table, and Merlin, leaning back against the opposite wall like heâd been waiting there since the mission ended.
Arthur drummed his fingers once on the sealed notebook in front of him.
âSheâs unpredictable.â
âYes,â Merlin said.
âShe doesnât wait for orders.â
âNope.â
Arthur looked up.
âShe doesnât ask for clearance.â
Merlin shrugged one shoulder. âShe reads the board and moves.â
Arthur narrowed his eyes. âThatâs not how this unit works.â
âShe could have left you compromised,â Merlin said. âBut she didnât.â
Arthur stared at him.
Merlinâs voice didnât waver. âShe adapts. She listens. She learns the rhythm of a team faster than most people notice the tempoâs changed.â
Arthur didnât speak.
Merlin pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate.
âShe doesnât need to lead. She doesnât want to disrupt. She finds the objectives and reinforces them.â
âBut she does it her way,â Arthur said.
âYes,â Merlin replied. âAnd her way doesnât cost lives. It never has.â
Arthur went still.
âAnd you trust her,â he said. Not a question.
âI do,â Merlin said.
He leaned his hands on the table, knuckles braced.
âShe doesnât wait for permission, but she doesnât cross the line. She never pushes until something breaks.â
Arthur said nothing for a long time.
Then finally:
âIf I bring her in, it has to be clear. She works with us. Not above us.â
Merlin nodded. âSheâll listen. Especially to you.â
Arthur raised a brow.
âYou seem sure of thatâ
Merlinâs expression didnât shift.
âBecause youâre the only one whose orders already match the way she thinks.â
Knight Recreational Room
The lights were half-dimmed at the Recreational Room of the Knights of the Round Table.
A few mugs sat on the counter. Someone had put the electric kettle on and forgotten about it.
Lancelot was seated on a stool near the wall, half napping.
Percival sat on the edge of the couch, forearms on his knees.
Bedivere had a tablet open in his lap but hadnât touched it in five minutes.
Galahad was lying sideways across two chairs like it was a couch made for him and him alone.
Gawain, of course, had claimed the armchairâclean, composed, ready to complain.
Tristan sat by the windowsill, quiet as ever.
âAfter finally meeting her on that solo op she broke into.â
âAffirmative.â Bedivere hummed.
âAnd Merlin of all people wants to be her handler.â Percival chimed in.
âSeems about right.â Galahad muses.
â...Right. So now begs the real question.â
They all turn to look at Lancelot.
âHow exactly do you bring in a ghost?â Lancelot looks at them.
No one answered right away.
âSheâs not a ghost,â Bedivere muttered. âJust. Very hard to track.â
âSheâs deliberately hard to track,â Galahad said. âThereâs a difference.â
âShe rerouted our entire op from a stolen comm and somehow just sauntered into our Commanderâs solo one,â Gawain offered, not even lifting his head. âAnd then vanished both times before extraction.â
Percival leaned forward. âDid she even have an extraction?â
âShe was the extraction,â Percy said. âShe exfiltrated herself.â
Tristan didnât speak, but his eyes flicked to the door like he was already wondering if she was listening.
âAnyone actually seen a personnel file on her?â Lancelot asked.
âNo,â Bedivere said.
âNot a full one,â Galahad added.
âDoesnât exist unless she wants it to,â Gawain said.
There was a pause.
Then Lancelot muttered, âWhat kind of name is Wyvern anyway?â
âThe kind that doesn't need a second one,â Percival said.
âSheâs not going to slot into a training module,â Galahad said. âSheâs going to test us faster than Arthur does.â
Synopsis: In Merlinâs lab, he and Lancelot weigh the reality of bringing Crown into the fold. Command calls her volatile, Merlin calls her necessary, and Lancelot reluctantly agrees. Between paperwork, quiet confessions, and unspoken loyalty to Arthur, they both admit she may be trouble, but she is trouble worth keeping.
Content warnings: institutional politics, discussions of control and volatility, loyalty vs. bureaucracy, themes of trust and chosen family, dry humor, quiet solidarity.
Word Count: 934 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
One Hour Earlier
The overhead lights hum softly, casting a warm glow over the cluttered laboratory. Paperwork fans out much like a topographical map of Merlinâs mind: controlled chaos in motion. Itâs not messy, just well-used and well-lived, much like everything in this office that is always in progress.
Merlin is hunched over the corner terminal, glasses set aside, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His expression conveys that heâs one complication away from declaring war.
The door creaks open without ceremony.
Lancelot steps in, holding a manila folder in one hand and something resembling relief in the other.Â
âGot your handler routing. Adminâs stamped it. Command had opinions, but I told them Iâd rather eat glass than explain it again next quarter.â
Merlin straightens with a low crack of his knuckles as he takes the file.Â
âCor, youâre a saint,â he says.
âIâm a staff sergeant with patience,â Lancelot replies. âYouâre the one who volunteered for her.â
He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the back of the couch with practiced ease as if the place already belongs to him.
âIâd take your emotional bandwidth over another Command cycle. Counted three departments trying to âsubtly suggestâ sheâs too volatile to handle.â
Merlin doesnât look up as he signs the first six pages with mechanical precision.Â
âSheâs been off-radar for years. Just needed the right fire under her to reappear.â He glances up. âYouâve been waiting for her to say yes all this time?â
âKingsman has,â Merlin replies. âI just made sure she doesnât think they wasted her time.â
He pauses just long enough to meet Lancelotâs gaze.
âDon't get me wrong, she is volatile. That doesnât mean sheâs wrong for us.â
âJust means sheâs wrong for them,â Lancelot finishes.
âYou get it.â
They fall into a comfortable silence that only comes from shared burdensâthe kind that doesnât need words to support it. Two men whoâve both fought to keep Arthur upright, surviving the worst of Kingsmanâs internal warfare, yet still capable of dry humor and quiet grace.
Merlin finishes the file and signs the final line.
âYou know most of HQ thinks I took this assignment because they believe I can handle her.â
Lance leans back slightly.Â
âCan you?â
âShe doesnât need handling.â
A pause.
âShe needs someone who wonât flinch when she sharpens the room.â
Lance grins slowly, knowingly.Â
âThen itâs a good thing itâs you. Most of HQ still isnât sure she exists. Half of them think sheâs some off-book weapon Training is using to scare the interns.â
Merlin taps the edge of the file.
âTheyâll find out soon enough.â
Lancelot flips through the routing sheet, scanning it with the low-key focus of someone whoâs been in the structure long enough to know what parts of the paperwork administration would find fault with.Â
âYouâve been pretty insistent to be her handler.â
âCan't say I didn't fight for it.â
âIâve been meaning to ask you why.â
âBecause no one else wouldâve lasted a month.â
Lance watches Merlin lean back, the spark fading into something thoughtful. His fingers tap a rhythm on the edge of the desk.Â
âShe gives her loyalty to people,â Merlin says quietly. âNot institutions. Not flags. And certainly not Kingsman.â
Lancelot doesnât interrupt.Â
âTheyâve been chasing her for years,â Merlin adds. âShe never even blinked.â
âSo what did she do,â Lance asks softly, âto make you blink?â
âShe showed up. She always does.â Merlin exhales, a breath thatâs half-smirk, half-confession. âSheâll be good for us, whether she stays or not.â
Lancelot flips through the recitals.
âNo dorm?â
âNo perks. No cafeteria access. She can use the training wing if her assigned unit is on-site.â
âAnd minimum load?â
âHundred fifty hours monthly. Any unit can request her, but only through me. Otherwise, sheâs on tech development with me.â
Lancelot nods once.Â
âYou assigning her to a unit?â
Merlin exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if the question has been clawing at him for days.Â
âNothing permanent or sheâll be turned off. She needs room to orbit. But if she keeps circling the same axisâŚâ
He trails off, and Lance watches him.
âSheâll end up where she belongs,â he finishes.
âHere. With us.â
Merlin meets his eyes. âExactly.â
A beat of comfortable silence follows.
âWell,â Lancelot stretches slowly and deliberately, rolling tension out of his shoulders. âArthurâs got enough on his plate letting this happen.â
âCommandâs never clean, Lance.â Merlin pulls at his rolled sleeves. âI speak enough of their red tape to know how this needs to go.â
âThatâs why heâs got both of us.â
Merlin hums. âYou handle the fallout.â
âYou preempt it,â Lancelot nods back.Â
âI write the plans,â Merlin murmurs, âKnowing youâll break just enough of them to save lives.â
Their grins mirror each other, weather-worn, familiar, and true.Â
Not balance. Not symmetry.Â
Compensation.
The terminal pings. One new update from Arthurâs Sensitive Op.
Merlin swivels in his chair and clicks the message open on the big screen behind them.
ACTIVE UNIT CROSSOVER â SOLO OP CMD LANCASTERÂ Â
ADDITIONAL: CONSULTANT GRAYSON SIGNED IN.
They stare at it for a moment.Â
Then Lancelot laughs, full-throated and delighted.Â
âOh, Arthurâs going to implode. That man thrives on order.â
âSheâs exactly what he needs.â Merlinâs smile is small, sharp, and certain. âChaos with a compass.â
Lancelot lifts a brow. "We don't need another reason for Arthur to malfunction."
âOh, he will.â
âAnd thatâs worth smiling for?â
Merlin doesnât miss a beat.
âBecause if we play our cards just right, she might finally teach him how to feel again.â
A/N: We stan the Left Hand (Merlin) and the Right (Lance)
Synopsis: Arthur enters the field alone, only to find Crown already moving through the op with dangerous ease. Their collision threatens to derail the mission, yet their instincts fit together with unnerving precision. What should have been a liability becomes an alliance, and Arthur is left to reckon with the fact that Crownâs chaos might be the edge he cannot command.
Content warnings: espionage, infiltration, knives, firearms, close-quarters violence, tactical deception, physical injury, themes of mistrust, rivalry, uneasy cooperation, ogling at a man, Arthurâs restraint challenged by Crownâs unpredictability, undertones of attraction, fake moaning.
Word Count: 1512 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
The Black King
Beyond the callsign, beyond the clean edges of the Kingsman emblemâ
heâs known by another name, whispered with reverence and caution through steel-lined halls:
The Black King.
Arthur Lancaster is not deployed for motion.
Heâs deployed for outcome.
He isnât the first piece on the board.
He is the final one.
The moment you see him, it's already too late.
Tonight, he moves alone.
The Wrong Room
The manorâs upper-level with the afterglow of its afternoon gala sparkles beneath a starless sky, awash in pretense and tightly choreographed shadows.
Arthurâs body drops down from the roof like a controlled weaponârappelling fluidly through dead air, gear wrapped tight against muscle honed by years of silent war.
Steel-blue eyes sweep the perimeter.
Not blinking. Not wondering.
He doesn't guess.
Arthur Lancaster calculates.
He lands clean on the penthouse balcony.
Slips through the window like the promise of regret.
Target: Foreign Minister Estavros.
Objective: confirm firsthand his trafficking deals are laundering weapons-grade bio-compounds.
Method: Watch. Wait. Move only if extraction fails.
Until the room is wrong.
Arthur enters shadow-quietâ
and Estavros is already there.
In hindsight, he should have known better and suspected the intel was poisoned.
Another unit processed this information. It had neither been cross checked by his team nor verified by Merlin before the briefing.
Arthur somehow landed in a penthouse suite, silent as a shadow, only to find himself face-to-face with the target he was supposed to be surveilling from a distance.
The ministerâs eyes widened. His hand twitched toward the bedside drawerâlikely a weapon. Arthurâs fingers brushed his own knife in his belt by his hip, calculating whether he could neutralize the situation before alarms were raised.
Then, a voiceâsmooth, teasing, and entirely too amusedâcut through the tension.
"Oh, Minister, I do apologize," came the lazy, familiar drawl. "My boytoy was told this was my room."
Arthurâs head snaps toward the open doorway.
There she is.
Wyvern Grayson.
Not as the Kingsman-adjacent strategist Crown that worked with his unit on the gala op just days beforeâ
but as herself.Silk-draped. Emerald-rouged. Danger with her hair loose and eyes built to command kings.
She leans one shoulder against the frame, the satin robe slipping just enough to make his lungs forget their function.
She smiles.
Not sweet. Strategic.Like she knows exactly what she looks like right now and has chosen to weaponize it.
âTold him twice which suite to go to,â she sighs, strolling in.
âBut alas. Men never listen.â
Arthur stiffens as she brushes past him.
Heat, silk, perfume. Poisonous grace. She doesn't look at him. Not yet.
He watches her bare legs carry her forward with casual authority, each step too slow for someone not fully in control of the room.
Her hips sway like sheâs mocking the laws of physics.
Arthurâs jaw clenches.
Arthur had heard of serendipity, but this? This was just his luck failing catastrophically.
The minister blinks at her in recognition and relaxes. Of course he does.
Crown was never just decoration.
Sheâs been at the elbow of prime ministers and in the ear of monarchs.
Whispers of coups softened by her advice.
Whole regimes steered by her fingertips.
A kingmaker.
Which is why she was assigned the callsign Crown.
Arthur doesn't speak.
Because right now, he's still calculating:
The fastest way to neutralize the minister if things go south
The exit route through the adjoining hall
Why the hell Wyvern Grayson is here on his mission
Wyvern turned her dazzling, almost too-rehearsed smile at the minister. "I trust youâll forgive him? Iâd hate for this little misunderstanding to reflect poorly on our negotiations later."
The ministerâs suspicion wavered harder. He exhaled, nodding. "These things happen. Just ensure he doesnât make such mistakes again, Miss Grayson."
And she steps closer to Arthur.
Presses one manicured hand to his chest.
âSee what I have to deal with?â she says sweetly, playing a little bit with the strap of his tac harness.
âLove when they come themed.â
Arthur does not respond.
But he very seriously considers homicide.
The minister waves them off.
The door clicks shut.
Realignment
And the second it does, Arthur steps toward her instantly.
âWhat the hell are you doing here?â
Crown turns, finally letting her gaze land on himâslow, deliberate. âI could ask you the same.â
She walks to the minibar like she owns the walls.
Arthur follows.
Towering. Shadowed. Still simmering with restrained heat.
His gear clings to his frame like molded weight.
Heâs all spine, shoulders, legs that could end negotiations if he pressed you against a wall.
âThis is a Kingsman op,â he says tightly.
âCorrection,â she purrs, pouring a drink.
âIâm letting Kingsman piggyback off an infil Iâve been orchestrating for three weeks.â
He doesnât take the martini she offers.
She laughs under her breath.
âDidnât think youâd drink on duty. But youâre very good at standing there looking like divine retribution in combat boots.â
Arthur doesn't rise to it.
But his eyes drop for a fraction of a second.To the curve of her mouth, still smiling.
She smirked over the rim of her glass after he rejected her offer for a martini. âJust because I donât have a callsign that screams âmedieval swordâ doesnât mean Iâm not involved.â
Arthur exhaled sharply.Â
Synergy Enabled
"Iâm here because the minister is under Kingsman surveillance for illegal weapons trafficking." His arms remained folded.Â
"Fascinating,â Wyvern tapped a finger against her glass. âWell, I need him alive long enough to expose the offshore accounts heâs been funneling money into. Said accounts are funding a hit team thatâs targeting a Waverly-linked intel leak. I need access to reroute the funding chain.â
Arthurâs gaze sharpens.
âThat wasnât in our brief.â
âWell, your brief is two days old. My dataâs newer.â
She tosses her phone on the table and Arthur catches it midair without looking.
Arthurâs brow furrowed as he parses through the annotated briefing. "You wanted access to his accounts?"
"Just long enough to make someâŚedits to his financial history.â She waves her hand vaguely. âMaybe leak a document or two. Nothing too dramatic."
Their eyes lock.
Something clicks.
Crown reads people.
Arthur reads rooms.
Their intel stacks without effort.
Arthurâs silence was enough of an answer. She grinned.
"Thatâs the spirit," she said. "Now, letâs discuss how weâre getting there without alerting security."
Arthur rolled his shoulders. "Minimal interference. No unnecessary risks."
Wyvern saluted him with her glass, gaze clearly fixed on the tight curves of his back. "Yes, sir."
He scowled harder.
The Cover-Up (Again)
Two hours.
Thatâs how long they need before the ministerâs meeting ends and both operations can execute with no crossfire.
But Arthurâs trapped in her suite.
And Crown is the storm outside the gates.
She watches him moveâ
Every shift of his shoulders, every low-slung motion, his ass when he pivots toward the window.
She smirks. âFunctional and aesthetic. How fortunate.â
He exhales slowly.
âYouâre not helping.â
âNot trying to.â
A soft sound echoes behind them like distant footsteps.
Arthur has one hand on the hilt of his blade. Suddenly, sheâs behind him before he hears her move.
Her breath ghosted against his ear.
"Mute him, Merlin."
A soft clickâthen silence.
Arthur barely had time to register the comms going dead before Wyvern moaned.
Deep. Raw. Too real.
Arthurâs brain bluescreens.
Then the knock at the door.
She shoves him down and he lets her.
More stunned than off-balance.
Her weight straddles him.
Her thigh brushes his hip.
Her hands slide into his hair.
And Arthurâ
The Black Kingâ
Gets swept up by the momentum
And his gaze drifts down at her lips.
Too long.
Too hard.
And doesnât move.
"Sit pretty," she whispered. "And donât move."
Arthur was torn between strangling her or waiting for this absolute disaster to play out.
And then the door burst open.
Armed men stormed in.
Wyvern barely turned, her fingers still resting lazily in Arthurâs hair. She let out a long, suffering sigh.
"Honestly. Can a woman not have fun in peace?"
The mercenaries froze, their gazes quickly taking in the scene.
Arthur, sprawled out, disheveled. Hand hovering above the small of her back.
Wyvern, standing over him with a knee against his waist, looking thoroughly inconvenienced.
The moan.
The lead assailant coughed. "Our apologies, maâam. We were toldâ"
Wyvern waved a lazy hand. "Out. Now."
The hardened criminals and ruthless hired killers uttered half-hearted apologies as they hurriedly returned the shadows.
Arthur stared at the now-empty doorway. "Youâve got to be kidding me."
âYouâre welcome,â she says, smoothing his hair, eyes bright with wicked amusement.
And he lets her.
Just for a second.
Then he exhales.
Straightens.
Tightens the gear across his chest.
Arthur inhaled through his nose. "Never do that again."
She leaned down, smoothing his hair with infuriating gentleness. "Sorry for the theatrics, love."
Then, without another word, she slipped away.
Arthur watched her go.
Then, jaw tight, he exhaled, straightened his suit, and refocused.
The mission was still on.
And Wyvern Grayson was the most infuriating woman he had ever met.
Synopsis: The Knights formally debrief, still trying to parse Crownâs unpredictability. To them, sheâs a ghost; too deliberate to track, too fast to control. Tristan voices it simply: âSheâll come in sideways. When weâre already moving.â Their Commander listens in silence, his eyes heavier than his words. For the first time, the Round Table isnât talking about a mission. Theyâre talking about her.
Content warnings: strong language, informal tension, discussion of surveillance and unpredictability, institutional mistrust, paranoia within the team, themes of being âhauntedâ by a disruptive force, loyalty vs. suspicion within a found family dynamic, subtle foreshadowing of Crownâs integration, Arthurâs fixation on Crown implied through silence and observation.
Word Count: 815 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
The debrief room had quiet lighting, but sharp edges.
Arthur stood at the head of the table. Jacket still on. Posture unreadable. He hadnât touched the console in front of him since walking in.
The Knights were in place, but not settled.
Lancelot sat with his arms folded and one heel bouncing under the table.
Galahad was stone-faced, still fixing the line of his sleeve.
Percival leaned forward with both elbows braced.
Bedivere had his tablet open but hadnât moved past the first screen.
Tristan was still by the wall, one shoulder pressed into it like heâd never left the op.
Gawain had tilted his chair back just enough to annoy someone. No one had spoken.
Arthur finally broke the silence.
âWe executed under pressure. The room was unstable. Objectives were met. Now I want the gaps.â
No one moved.
Then Lancelot exhaled through his nose and sat forward.
âShe caught my knife.â
Arthurâs expression didnât change.
âIt dropped. Half a second. Mid-transition between two engagements. She caught it mid-air and used it. Dropped a guy I didnât see yet.â
He tapped the edge of the table with two fingers. Fast. Controlled.
âThatâs not awareness. Thatâs reading the room before I even stepped into it.â
Arthur nodded once. âNext.â
Galahad sat back, voice clipped.
âShe armed me. Left holster. I was clean going in.â
He adjusted his sleeve again like it annoyed him more than the memory.
âShe walked past. I felt the shift. Safety was off, grip adjusted. I didnât checkâbecause by the time I reached for it, I needed it.â
He gave a thin smile. âDidnât even make a show of it.â
Percival leaned forward slowly, voice heavier.
âShe rerouted me.â
He looked at Arthur.
âService corridor. Flagged it sealed myself. I was already looping out when she passed me. Told me I was finally running the right direction.â
He paused.
âI checked the door. It was open. No alert. No breach. My mark was right past it.â
He shook his head once.
âShe didnât wait to be asked.â
Arthur let that hang. Then looked at Bedivere.
âShe compromised my feeds,â Bedivere said. Quiet. Tight.
He didnât look up.
âFive looped visuals. No flicker. No static. I wouldâve missed them.â
He pushed the tablet forward with two fingers. Brought up the frame.
âShe dropped onto the lens from above. Drew lipstick straight across the center. Full coverage. Forced the feed to glitch.â
He looked at Arthur now.
âShe flagged the lie manually.â
Arthur didnât react. Just shifted his gaze to the next seat.
Gawain didnât speak right away.
He was sitting like heâd been framed for a crime he almost enjoyed.
âShe took my comm,â he said. âDidnât ask. Didnât warn me.â
He rolled his shoulders once. âThen she threw herself into my arms, screamed about a rat, and detonated a ballroom evacuation with the emotional range of a stage actress on her third espresso.â
There were a few suppressed exhales around the table.
Gawain leaned forward, voice dry.
âI didnât say a word. She just used me. And it worked.â
Arthur looked to the far corner.
Tristan didnât shift.
âShe moved the people,â he said.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just facts.
âShe cleared the crowd away from my scope. Civilians, staff. One body at a time. Made the room align before it broke.â
He added, âI saw her once. In a reflection. Just long enough for her to know I saw her.â
The room went quiet.
Arthurâs gaze swept across them.
âYou all saw her,â he said. âOne-on-one. Not coordinated. Not briefed. Not deployed.â
He looked at Gawain.
âShe gave you something.â
Gawain blinked. âOh. Right.â
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim black notebook. Leather-bound. Compact.
âGave it to me after the ballroom cleared. Slid it into my pocket and said something about funeral cards.â
Arthur took it. Flipped it open.
Merlin moved closerâonly slightly. Like he already knew what was coming.
Inside: sketches. Route diagrams. Guard overlays.
Some of it matched what had been uploaded to the team.
But there were additional notes. Target behaviors. Alternate flanks. Behavioral loops.
A corner list of namesâunflagged marks. One already circled twice.
On the final page:
Youâre welcome
Drawn beneath it: a small, sharp-cornered crown.
Arthur stared at the notebook for a beat.
Then closed it.
âShe moved faster than we did,â he said.
Merlin nodded once. âShe always does.â
Arthur turned the book over once in his hands.
âHalf of this wasnât in the file.â
âShe sent what we needed,â Bedivere said.
âShe held the rest,â Galahad added. âUntil it wasnât hers to keep.â
Arthur exhaled. Not annoyed. Just...processing.
âSheâs good.â
âSheâs chaos,â Lancelot muttered.
âSheâs effective,â Percival said.
âBut unpredictable,â Galahad added.
Arthur tucked the notebook into his coat.
âWe keep the notes.â
He didnât say more.
Didnât say we keep her.
Because he hadnât decided yet.
A/N: Thank you for reading so far! We love smug women in this house.
Synopsis: The Knights informally debrief and irritation spills into the open. Lancelot, Percival, Galahad, Bedivere, Gawain, and Tristan each air their grievances â each inadvertently admitting Crown anticipated their blind spots. Merlin shrugs it off with familiarity: âThatâs Crown for you.â To Arthurâs silence during the Command brief, the truth is sharper: She was never undermining him. Sheâs matching his intent faster than his own men.
Content warnings: strong language, post-mission debriefing conflict, Knights airing grievances, aggressive reactions to being vulnerable, mild descriptions of tactical failure, themes of blame-shifting, institutional pressure, gendered suspicion (Crown as the outsider woman among an established male team), psychological tension, rivalry within a found family, Crown correcting othersâ blind spots, Arthurâs silence framed as authority and unease.
Word Count: 1308 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Merlin sat in the debrief room, spine straight, coffee cooling beside him.
The feed was paused. Crown stood mid-motionâhip turned, hair caught mid-swing, the final hostile already off-balance behind her.
The image looked more like choreography than combat.
He didnât move.
Didnât blink.
Just watched.
The door hissed.
Lancelot stepped in like he was still ready to punch something. His gait was clipped. Boots tracked in dust. Shirt untucked. He looked at the screen first, then at Merlin, then crossed to the far chair and dropped into it like the mission had taken a piece of him with it.
âI donât like her.â
Merlin didnât glance over. âMorning to you too, Lance.â
âMy knife slipped. She caught it. She shouldnât have been behind me.â He was tense, leaning forward, fingers folded together like he was waiting for someone to argue.
 âYou dropped it.â
âShe threw it like it was planned,â Lancelot muttered. âDropped the guy I hadnât even seen yet. Mid-turn. Like she was staging it.â
The door opened again.
Galahad entered with that soft, precise grace that came with being infuriatingly hard to rattle. He still wore his button-down from the night before, sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose like it hadnât been fully retired.
He paused at the table, taking in the screen.
âAre we unpacking the mystery woman?â he asked, voice dry.
âNot by name,â Lancelot snapped.
âAh,â Galahad said. âSo it is her.â
He took the seat beside Lancelot, back straight, legs crossed, every motion deliberate.
âShe gave me a sidearm,â he said, tone too casual.
Lancelot turned. âSince when do you carry on infil?â
âI wasnât,â Galahad said, annoyed. âI was dressed for ballroom blending. No hardware. I felt the weight drop into my holster mid-turn.â
He raised a hand, gesturing loosely.
âGrip adjusted. Safety off. Left-handed.â
His voice sharpened.
âShe anticipated my draw hand before I even pulled.â
The door opened again.
Percival stepped in like he had nowhere else to put his frustration. His shoulders were still squared, jaw tight. He stood for a moment at the edge of the table before pulling out a chair.
He didnât sit down so much as settle.
âLook, I donât know if weâre allowed to talk about it.â He looks like he could be bouncing on his heels in excitement âThe service corridor leading to the south one was sealed.â
Lancelot looked over. âYeah?â
âFlagged it myself. Forgot about it for a bit while I was looping around when she passed me. Said someone was finally headed in the right direction. Just kept walking.â
He rubbed at the back of his neck.
âWhen I got there, the door was already open. Not forced. Not hacked. Just. Waiting.â
He glanced toward Bedivereâs usual seat.
âThere was a pin in the lock. Gold. Engraved. Not ours.â
The door hissed again.
Bedivere entered like heâd been awake too long. He still wore the same wrinkled button-up from the night before. One sleeve was rolled too high. He didnât sit.
The others turned as he seemed coiled like a tight spring
âLipstick,â he said. âFull pass across the camera. Triggered the feed to glitch just long enough to expose the loop.â
He flipped the tablet around, showing the frame. The red smear. The flickering frame reset.
âShe didnât disable the fake feed. She embarrassed it.â
He dropped the tablet on the table, not hardâbut with finality.
âI found four more loops after that. All clean. All invisible until she made me look.â
Before anyone could respond, the next door opened.
Gawain strolled in, dragging one hand through his hair like it was a form of stress relief. His shirt was half-tucked. His comms earpiece was still dangling from one pocket.
He stopped just inside the room. Saw the feed. Saw their faces.
âOkay,â he said. âIf anyone says the words âferal rat,â I walk.â
Lancelot snorted. âShe threw herself into your arms.â
âI was ambushed,â Gawain said. âPhysically. With flair.â
âShe used you like a prop,â Galahad said.
âShe commandeered me,â Gawain corrected, sitting with a dramatic sigh. âOne moment Iâm working a gallery. The next, Iâm the centerpiece of a high-society evacuation.â
He threw a hand up.
âUsed my body. Screamed in my ear. Started a stampede. Four marks followed the flow straight into the east wing like it was choreographed.â
âYou looked shocked,â Bedivere said.
âI was violated.â
âYou looked like you enjoyed it,â Lancelot muttered.
âI did not.â
âShe used you effectively,â Merlin said, still watching the feed.
âShe used all of us,â Gawain said. âWith style.â
Then Tristanâs voice cut in from the wall. No one is sure how long heâs been standing there.
âShe moved the room.â
He didnât shift from where he stood; arms folded, eyes steady, posture immovable.
âShe didnât clear a shot. She made the crowd open one.â
Heads turned.
âI saw her. Reflected in a mirror. She wasnât even looking at me. But she let me see her. Just long enough.â
âSheâs already better than we are,â Gawain said.
âShe made us better,â Galahad corrected.
âShe covered us,â Tristan said.
Merlin looked at each of them. Then back to the screen.
âThatâs Crown for you.â
Across the base, Arthur sat in the glow of the Command terminal, fingers steepled as he gave his own debrief.
Galahadâs exit route opened seconds before he called for help.
Tristanâs shot cleared with no civilian in sight.
Percivalâs door wasnât unlocked as it had never been locked.
Bedivereâs feeds didnât flicker until red hit the glass.
And every time Arthur had opened his mouth to issue a commandâ
She was already halfway through executing it.
No disruption. No hesitation.
Arthurâs steel-blue eyes flickered as Commandâs voice crackled through the line.
âShe was an asset, then?â Their tone was neutral, but interested. âWeâve had our eyes on her for some time. A prize hire. Sheâs only recently been available for fieldwork.â
Arthurâs jaw tensed, his posture as straight as ever. Dark hair slicked back, with just a touch of premature gray at the temples. A commanderâs presence, deliberate in every movement. âShe was effective.â
âGood to hear.â A pause. âBecause of your teamâs strong record, Lancaster, and how well the Round Tableâs got on working with her, we want to offer her to your team as a consultant before she becomes available to the rest of Kingsman. Should you need extra help or expertise, think of her as a resource that your unit can access first.â
Arthur didnât reply immediately.
His team was a perfect machineâprecise, deadly. They didnât need outsiders, especially ones that were like a spanner in the works.
But she wasnât just interference, was she?
She was something else entirely.
Command clicks off the call, a touch smug. The infamous Commander has been finally stumped, it seems.Â
âThe decision is yours, Lancaster.â
A/N: Alternate title - Terrifying Men Turned On and Afraid of Being Read Like a Fucking Book
Synopsis: Crown joins the op. She insists sheâs not there to steal Arthurâs thunder but to fulfill her promise: backup, delivered on her own terms. She hands the Round Table critical intel they didnât know they needed â and proves her point in the field, derailing routines and exposes the op's blindspots to their advantage. For the first time, the Black Kingâs orders are matched â if not outpaced by a complete stranger.
Content warnings: action, just a butttload of action, violence, tactical combat, firearms, infiltration, bodily harm, improvisation under fire, death by firearm, strong language, themes of trust and suspicion, found family dynamics tested by intrusion, deliberately irritating men, institutional tension, women in men fields, Arthurâs restraint vs. Crownâs unpredictability, hints of rivalry and grudging reliance.
Word Count: 3088 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
The comms were silent. The kind of silence that came when protocol failed to account for reality.
Someone had flushed the ballroom. No casualties. No signal.
And now she was speaking on their frequency like it was hers.
She broke the tension with a soft sigh.
ââŚSorry, darling. Keep forgetting what they call you here.â
No callsign. No rank.
Just familiarity and a level of calm that didnât belong in the middle of a high-risk op.
Arthurâs eyes narrowed.
Then Merlin, composed as ever, exhaled. Just once. âAgent Merlin.â
Her voice came back, light.
âNoted, Agent Merlin.â
Then the ping.
A file dropped into the system. External. Secure. Seamless.
Merlin passed it along without pause.
Arthur watched it open across the network.
The air changed.
No one spoke right away. But he could feel it.
Bedivere was the first to break the silence.
ââŚThis isnât from our recon.â
Gawain leaned forward.
âThis is weeks ahead of our recon.â
The pictures were detailed. Schematics. Patrol paths. VIP logs. Guard rotations.
Hand-drawn. Time-stamped. Precise.
Not adapted from Kingsman files. Written and drawn from scratch.
Arthur didnât need to be told.
It wasnât just better. It was corrective.
He was already adjusting the op in his head.
And still, Merlin said, evenly,
âNow youâre just showing off, Wyvern.â
The name landed like a trigger pull.
Arthur glanced at the feed.
He didnât flinch. But the name came with weight.
Wyvern Grayson.
A name the Round Table had read in redacted logs.
The reason half the treaties in Eastern Europe held.
The reason the other half didnât.
Gawainâs voice was quiet, realizing whoâs standing next to him. âShe wasnât supposed to be here.â
She came back on the comms, as if sheâd always been in the game.
âNot here to steal your thunder, Commander. I believe the phrase is: back up, as promised.â
Arthurâs jaw tightened.
She had shifted the battlefield in under three minutes.
Didnât ask. Didnât brief.
Just corrected course.
Heâd be lying if he said he couldnât see the angles. Where her intel and version streamlined theirs. Where her calculations shaved off risk.
What mattered was that she was right.
âWhatâs your position?â
âWhere I need to be.â
He didnât like the disruption. But she wasnât wrong.
Her intel was cleaner. Her timing precise.
And Merlin?
Not even remotely surprised.
Arthur gave a clipped nod, more to himself than the team.
âFine. Letâs shut this down.â
The mission went off like a starting pistol.
Gawain adjusted his cuffs, already moving. âIâll sweep the West wing.â
âEast, hotshot.â Crown said, smoothly. âUnless you want to miss all the fun.â
He paused. Just long enough to register it.
ââŚEast it is,â he said, a grin tugging at the edge of his voice as he turned on his heel.
In the security booth, Bedivereâs fingers danced across the tablet.
Arthur nodded once. âPercival. Lancelot. Move.â
Lancelot moved like a blade drawn mid-swing.
He surged down the north hallway. A guard stepped into his path.
One twist. Drop.
Another raised a rifle.
Lancelot swept low, cracked ribs with a knee, and pivoted outâ
his knife slipping from his fingers mid-motion.
He didnât pause.
âHallway secure,â he said into comms. âTwo hostiles down.â
A blur passed him.
Crown.
She caught the falling blade one-handed without breaking stride.
Turned. Threw.
The knife sank clean into the chest of a third man, rifle raised and aimed squarely at Lancelotâs back.
She kept walking.
âMake that three,â she said, not even looking back.
At the corridorâs end, she glanced over her shoulder.
A half-smile.
Then gone.
Bedivereâs workspace was glowing like a bomb was about to go off.
Six camera feeds open. Three more in debug. One ear filtering team comms, the other feeding Arthur filtered alerts.
He dragged a split-screen thermal map over two static hallways and a flickering signal in the northwest stairwell.
âSouth junctionâs flagged. North wing too stable. Could be clean or fakeâweâve got a ten-frame delay but no source corruption.â
He pinged it. Logged it. Kept moving.
Arthurâs voice came over the line. Controlled. Irritated.
âYouâre still showing no movement at junction six. Tristanâs got a lockâwhy hasnât it triggered?â
Bedivereâs fingers flew.
âIâm seeing zero on motion. Static audio pattern. Timestamp holding... no drift.â He frowned. âLooks real.â
In his earpiece: Lancelot grunting through a fight. Galahad dryly announcing a takedown. Gawain half-laughing mid-mission.
Thenâ
A new visual ticked live.
Crown.
Not in the hallway.
Above it.
She swung down into frame from the ledge, heels scraping glass like she wasnât mid-op but mid-performance.
Evening dress. Lipstick in hand.
She looked up into the camera. Right at it.
Then started writing across the lens.
Large, looping strokes. Red on grey feed.
For a moment, nothing changed.
Then the hallway glitched.
The footage stutteredâjumped half a frame behind.
Then again.
Bedivereâs blood chilled. âNoââ
He scanned it. Timestamp off. Lighting pattern caught on loop.
The hallway wasnât quiet. It was too perfect.
âVisual loop confirmed. Feedâs poisoned. They buried movement behind a burn-in,â he said, fast now. âShutting it downâcross-checking adjacent junctionsââ
Four more collapsed under the same test.
Every one of them flagged clean. Every one of them false.
He toggled backups.
Real footage slammed into the interface like cold water.
Guards running. One agent being flanked. Another hallway where nothing was supposed to be happeningâwas.
Bedivere rerouted the tactical layout with one flick and tossed a full update to Arthurâs board.
âLooped feeds terminated. Five total. Iâve restored real-time visuals and rerouted tracking.â
Arthur watched as half the board corrected.
Routes redrew. Markers snapped back. The noise started to make sense again.
He stared at the hallway Crown had appeared in. The one that had read âcleanâ for ten full minutes.
The lipstick still smeared across the lens before it cut.
Not vandalism.
A flare.
He stepped back. Processing.
She hadnât destabilized the mission.
Sheâd exposed the illusion that it was stable in the first place.
Arthurâs jaw set. He didnât say a word.
But something in his expression cracked.
Because in the middle of chaos, she hadnât reacted to it.
She had peeled it back.
And everyone else was just catching up.
Percival sprints down the hall, his boots pounding tile. âCommander, approaching the service corridor. Should save ten seconds to target.â
âThat route was sealed during prep,â Arthur replied. Calm. Sharp. âAdjust to secondary.â
âShit. Right. Copy.â He slowed, preparing to pivot.
Footsteps soft and quick cut across his path.
Then she passed him.
White hair loose to her waist, steady stride, dressed for the event but built for the field. Cool gaze, unreadable. No insignia. No rush.
She didnât look surprised to see him.
âFinally,â she said, tone smooth, âSomeone running in the right direction.â
He turned, thrown for half a second. âWait, youâreââ
She smiled like it wasnât a secret and kept moving.
He blinked, then clicked comms.
âSir. I think I just saw Crown.â
A beat of silence.
Arthurâs reply came flat. âDid she speak to you?â
âSaid I was heading the right way.â
Another beat.
âThen stay your course,â Arthur said. âTake the corridor.â
Percival pivoted back and picked up speed.
The door ahead stood slightly ajar. He slowed just enough to clock the scene.
A gold pin glinted in the lockâcurved, delicate, nothing Kingsman-issued. A fingerprint left with intent.
Inside, three targets.
His mark stood mid-room, facing a cabinet. A guard to his left leaned against the wall, scrolling a tablet. Another crouched by an equipment crate, head down.
Percival moved.
He charged through the threshold in one clean motion. The standing guard turned just as Percival hit him like a truckâshoulder to chest, full force. The manâs body cracked against the wall and dropped.
The crouched guard reached for a weapon.
Percival lunged, grabbed his arm mid-draw, and slammed it down hard against the crate edge. Bone gave. The man screamed. Percival drove a knee into his ribs and let him fall.
The mark took off.
Percival ran.
Closed the distance in five steps, wrapped a hand around the manâs collar, and yanked.
The mark stumbled, caught air, then hit the ground hard. Percival dropped on top of him, wrenched his arms back, zip-tied his wrists tight and high.
He stood, yanked the man upright like dead weight, and clicked comms.
âMark secured,â Percival said, breath steady but hot. âThree down. South corridor clear.â
He turned once, halfway out the door. The gold pin still sat in the lock, catching the low light.
Same glint heâd seen in her purse when she passed him.
He didnât say a word.
But something in him shifted.
Then he kept moving.
Galahad moved through the West Wing like he was making an entrance.
Crisp lines. Polished stride. One hand adjusting the cuff of his jacket like a ritual.
Two targets ahead.
The woman stood near a partition wall, pretending to take a call. The man loitered by the stairwell, trying too hard to look bored.
He set his rhythm, slow and centered. A performance.
Then Crown passed him.
White hair. Unreadable eyes. No sound but the hush of her steps across marble.
No warning.
Something touched his hip.
A second later, he felt itâthe weight of a pistol settle cleanly into his holster.
He blinked once.
Oh?
A gun.
He hadnât brought one.
He didnât react. He never missed a cue. But his mouth pressed into a sharper line.
The catering cart rolled between him and the woman. Too smooth to be coincidence.
It clipped her hip. She shifted two steps left. Irritated.
Now framed in the glass. Like a gift.
He moved.
One smooth pivot. Taser drawn from under the napkin tray.
Pressed to her spine, down she went.
No noise.
He turned on the second mark. The man reached into his jacket, confident.
âYouâre underdressed,â Galahad said, already raising the pistol surreptitiously gifted.
The manâs fingers came up empty.
Real panic this time.
Galahad moved faster than he looked capable of.
A full pivot. Grabbed the manâs wrist mid-motion.
Twisted. Drove a knee into his gut, flipped him onto the floor, and put him down hard.
He straightened. Ran a hand down his jacket. Breathed out slowly.
Tapped comms.
âTwo down. West wing clear. And someoneâs been cheating.â
He looked at the pistol Crown had gifted him. Then at the unconscious man, whose holster was sewn clean but empty.
She hadnât interfered.
Sheâd rewritten the ending of the scene.
He ran a hand down his lapel, exhaled sharply, and said, under his breath,
âWell, that was nearly tragic.â
Then, quieter still:
âNo wonder Arthurâs twitching.â
Thenâ
A soft breath. A flick of his coat.
And scene.
Gawain didnât usually take suggestions from people he hadnât vetted.
But something in the way she said it had stuck like a dare dressed in silk.
So now he was here.
East Wing.
And as much as he hated to admit it Crown had been right.
His primary target was posted near the service door, fidgeting with a cufflink like it might explode.
Three more from his list had filtered in behind him, all looking for exits that didnât exist.
He circled the room slowly. Glass in hand. Eyes half-lidded. Smile soft.
All he needed was a break in the tempo.
Thatâs when he saw her.
Far end of the corridor.
Just a glimpseâwhite hair, poised stride, calm in a room full of chaos.
Their eyes met. One beat.
She didnât nod. Didnât signal.
But he understood the moment she broke eye contact.
Now.
The light above him exploded.
Silent shot. Glass rained down like confetti. Darkness rolled across the ballroom like a curtain drop.
He moved before the first footstep shifted behind him.
Fifteen seconds.
He reached the primary target in three strides, caught him by the lapel, and spun him behind a column.
Palm to the throat. Elbow to the temple. Out cold.
Second target was already turning when Gawain charged.
He faked high, ducked the swing, swept the manâs legs out from under him and cracked his head against the tile on the way down.
The room buzzed. Emergency lights kicked in.
He stood. Smoothed his jacket. Adjusted his cuffs with theatrical calm.
Toggled comms.
âEast wing secure. Two down.â
Pause.
âAlso, someone let Crown know her sense of timing is... obnoxiously perfect.â
He glanced once toward the hall.
She was already gone.
Because of course she was.
He chuckled, half under his breath.
âAnd here I thought I was the dramatic one.â
Then he faded back into the ballroom like nothing had touched him.
Tristan lay still above the ballroom.
Breath controlled. Stock tight to his shoulder.
Scope tracking the mark through movement and noise and glass.
The man was good at drifting.
He never stopped moving, never broke completely from the crowd.
But he was nervous. That would cost him.
Tristan stayed patient.
The shot wasnât ready.
He adjusted his elevation by a fraction, followed the mark across the top edge of a floral displayâ
Until, he caught a reflection.
Not the mark.
White hair. Steady gaze. She wasnât looking at the room. She was looking at him.
In the gilded frame of a mirror across the hall.
He flinched. Just for a second. Small. Tight. Immediate.
Snipers didnât get seen. Not even by allies. Especially not during a live op.
But she had him. And she wanted him to know it.
She moved out of frame.
He exhaled slowly.
Then noticed it.
Guests repositioned themselves as the center of conversation shifted. Not drastically. Not frantically.
A couple rotating as they turned to laugh. A server drifting left instead of right.
Little shifts. Measured.
And every one of them was clearing his angle.
Crown was moving the room. Based on his line.
He rechecked his breath. Felt the tension shift below.
Thatâs when the op broke.
Lancelot tore through the hallway of the eastern wing and passed the clear doors pursuing two armed menâfast, lethal, close-quarters chaos.
Percival came in loud. A freight-train charge through the ballroomâs opposite flank with what can only be described as the grunt of men being thrown across the hall the opposite way.
The crowd surged. Screams. Motion. Glass splitting underfoot.
The mark spun. Wrong direction.
He turned straight into Tristanâs field.
Clean. Center mass.
No civilians in range.
Tristan squeezed the trigger.
The shot was soft. Suppressed.
The body crumpled without a sound.
He toggled comms.
âTarget down. West perimeter clear.â
His eye stayed in the scope a moment longer.
The mirror was empty now.
Crown was gone.
No radio. No signal. No need.
Sheâd found his angle, moved the bodies, and cleared the shot.
All before the first trigger pulled.
He adjusted the bolt. Realigned. Recalibrated.
Then went still again.
Already watching for the next one.
âIâm being pursued hotly. And not in a good way.â Galahadâs voice was sharp in Arthurâs ear. Footsteps pounding. Breathing ragged. Gunshots whizzed past him. âI thought doorway 06A was supposed to be open!â
Arthur turned toward the screen fast.
Galahad was mid-sprint, coat snapping, arm braced to keep balance as he cut the corner into the hallway.
He hit the turn into the junction hard.
The exit shouldâve triggered.
It didnât.
Arthurâs blood chilled.
âBedivere,â Arthur snapped. âWhy hasnât it triggered?â
Bedivere was already moving.
âItâs listed green! System shows itâs clearedâwaitâmechanicalâs not respondingâ!â
The feed glitched. A split second of stillness.
âTry down the hall.â Crownâs voice purred for half a second.
A chair skidded across the tile in the opposite direction, loud enough to turn heads.
Galahad flinched mid-stride but kept going as the fire momentarily ceased.
Arthurâs screen snapped back into clarity.
Galahad cleared the breach, sprinted into the corridorâand behind him, stamped into the doorframeâ
And there, just for a second, it caught the edge of the frame:
A heel print. Impossibly clean. Formal.
Stamped hard into the splintered wood.
Evening-wear tread.
His chest tightened.
She had opened it. Earlier. Without a word.
Arthur toggled to Tristanâs scope feed.
âVisual on Galahad. Iâve got him. Corridorâs covered.â
Arthur didnât move.
Galahad had survived not because the system workedâbut because she moved first.
Not after orders. Not waiting for clearance.
She had listened to his strategy. Understood his intent. And executed ahead of him.
Arthur watched as the floor map redrew around the move.
Corridors shifted. Doorways pre-cleared. His team turning without knowing why it was working.
She wasnât freelancing.
She was following himâbut faster.
He keyed the comm once.
Low. Controlled.
âLet her run with it.â
Then he stepped back from the boardâ
and realized the mission had stopped reacting to him.
It was accelerating around her.
One final rogue agent lunged from behind her.
No hesitation.
Crown shifted her weight, caught his wrist, and drove a knee into his ribs.
A sharp pop. Dislocated shoulder. He crumpled.
She kept walking.
Arthur scanned the feed one last time.
All hostiles neutralized.
All VIPs intact.
No casualties. No second guessing.
Just execution.
He clicked the comm.
âMission complete.â
Arthur stood at the edge of the ops table, eyes on the feed.
The Knights were gathered nowâsilent, steady, watching.
The ballroom was still.
Galahad was brushing debris off his coat.
Lancelot and Percival had already moved to cover.
Tristanâs rifle had gone quiet.
Bedivere was already syncing data.
And Gawain?
He stood at ease, hands in his pockets, wearing the same expression heâd had when she first borrowed his commâlike heâd been waiting to see how this would end.
Crown approached without a word.
She stepped up to Gawain and slipped his second comm back into his jacket pocket.
âI did say Iâd make it run smoothly,â she said, calm as anything.
Gawain gave a low breath of a laugh. Quiet. Amused.
No one else spoke.
At the ops console back at base, Merlin leaned back with a slow exhale.
âShow-off.â
Crown glanced sideways without breaking stride.
âIf I wanted to show off,â she said, âIâd steal the spotlight.â
Then she turned to the rest of them.
Looked each one of them in the eye.
No speech. No need.
Just a once-over and a wink.
âBut hey,â she added, âI do like making good men shine.â
And then she walked out of the gala.
Heels clicking.
Pace unhurried.
Presence undeniable.
Arthur didnât speak.
But he was still watching.
And he knewâ
This wasnât over.
Wyvern Grayson had just entered the game.
And Kingsman?
Kingsman played for keeps.
A/N: I loved writing the action scenes here. It felt pretty gratifying having everyone flex and Crown being deliberately irritating here.
Synopsis: At a London gala, Kingsman Commander Arthur Lancaster and his unit the Round Table execute a covert op with ruthless precision until things take a turn for the worst. An unaffiliated woman clears the entire ballroom in under two minutes, improvising chaos as strategy. Her callsign: Crown. The Knights see recklessness. Arthur sees interference. Unfortunately, she's the only shot they have to salvage the op and get out safely.
Content warnings: violence, covert operations, firearms, tactical maneuvers, mild descriptions of injury, strong language, institutional corruption implied, high-stakes espionage, themes of control vs. improvisation, death, sniping, using private mobiles at work, tension between rigid authority and unpredictable tactics.
Word Count: 1580 words
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Kingsman wasnât just an agency. It was a myth forged in silenceâan espionage syndicate so deep underground, most governments only knew its name when their power had already slipped through their fingers. What they did know was this: when Kingsman deployed, it meant containment had failed.
And when failure threatened to rewrite history, Kingsman turned to the Round Table.
Eight operatives. Handpicked. Lethal. Each capable of toppling a regimeâor resurrecting one.
They werenât elite. They were legends.
And tonight, they were all that stood between a ballroom full of global power brokers and an untraceable massacre.
The Command Room pulsed with the cool glow of surveillance feeds. Ballroom. Rooftop. Corridors. Every angle monitored. Every second counted.
Callsign Arthur stood at the center of it all, rigid and composed. His frame was all sharp lines and coiled calm, the silver at his temples stark against slicked-back dark hair. He looked carved from command itself.
Beside him stood Agent Merlin, a figure of quiet intensity and wiry frame. His dark hair, perpetually tousled as if he had just rolled out of bed, framed his face, which was focused intently on the mission brief in his hands; memorized after countless readings. The blue light from the large screens bathed the room in a cool hue, causing his glasses to gleam as he adjusted them.
His skin retained a sun-kissed glow despite contrasting sharply with the sterile environment of their dimly lit command center.Â
âThe Knights are in position, Commander Lancaster.â he drawled as he handed over the datapad with a meticulously folded sleeve.
Arthur didnât fidget as he took it. Both men never take their eyes off the screen.
He didnât blink more than necessary.
He watched. He waited.
Click.
He pressed his comm into place. âStatus.â
One word. Flat, precise. It erupted along the line like the sound of a starting pistol.
A Gala in the Heart of the City
The gala glittered with polished danger. Crystal chandeliers. Velvet shadows. Money that made enemies.
Intel flagged two threats: a bomb or an armed assault.
Possibly both.
And the Knights of the Round Table were in position.
Agent Lancelot lounged at the bar, tux straining slightly against his fighterâs frame. He stirred a drink he hadnât touched, eyes scanning the room like a wolf waiting for the herd to panic.
âTwo tailers near the wine cart,â he murmured. âOneâs pretending to text. Poorly. Thinks lowering the backlight of the screen makes him subtle.â
Arthurâs voice came back, clean. âMark them. Donât engage.â
Agent Galahad stood near the VIP section, wine glass in hand, smile just sharp enough to cut. His voice was velvet, timed to a beat between flattery and threat.
âVIP Threeâs drunk enough. Wager theyâd start listing shell companies if I blink at him the right way.â
Merlin cut in, dry as sandpaper. âWeâre not licensed for confessionals.â
Meanwhile, Agent Percival was posted at the north entrance like a wall disguised in formalwear. His stance never shifted, but his voice was low and grim.
âSecurity detail just doubled. Civilians are twitchy. One twitch and weâve got a stampede.â
Merlinâs voice filtered in. âCould be theyâre spooked.â
âOr they know more than we do,â Percival replied. âOne woman near the lobby was sobbing into her purse.â
Agent Bedivere was hunched over his tablet in a hidden security tower, eyes narrowing.
âEncrypted RF chatter in the east wing. Not ours. Frequencyâs jumping. Whoeverâs transmitting is mobile.â
Arthur didnât miss a beat. âTrace it. I want a fix and an angle.â
âOn it,â Bedivere muttered. âBut weâve lost visual on the northeast stairwell. Thatâs not interference. Someone physically unplugged the camera.â
Agent Gawain ghosted through the crowd, warm grin still on but tighter.
âTelecom CEO just exchanged something with the ex-spook. Flash drive, maybe. Now theyâre splitting up. This is coordinated.â
Arthurâs jaw set. âShadow op or external threat?â
âBoth,â Gawain said. âFeels like we walked into someone elseâs war.â
Up on the rooftop, Agent Tristan spoke for the first time in minutes. His voice was quiet, unshaken.
âTwo men unloading crates. Civilian clothes. I canât confirm weapons, but one just covered the crate with a thermal blanket.â
Arthurâs attention snapped. âConfirm the convoy.â
âArmored truck. No tags. No traffic record. Theyâve got two more crates. I give it five minutes before theyâre inside.â
Arthur turned to Merlin. âPull feed. Scan for logos, serials, anything.â
Merlinâs screen flashed. âNo identifiers. Whatever this is, it was scrubbed clean. Logistics confirm: nothing should be coming in tonight. That convoy is off-grid and fully armed.â
Galahadâs voice came sharper now.
âVIPs are scattering. Oneâs still in the ballroom. Two just took the stairwell. Last one ducked into a service wing. Fuck, itâs the negotiator from the Manila accord.â
Arthurâs pulse jumped. âIf he dies, that treaty collapses.â
âAnd if the CEO upstairs gets taken,â Merlin added, âWe lose access to the entire Balkan satellite network. Half the defense grid goes dark next quarter.â
Bedivere cuts in faster now.
âSignalâs deteriorating. We just lost rooftop cam three. Jammingâs active and tightening. If they hit the ballroom with those crates, weâre too late.â
Arthur flipped channels. âCommand. This is the Round Table. Immediate backup required. Threat is active.â
There was a pause. Too long.
âNearest unit is thirty minutes out, Commander Lancaster.â
Arthurâs hand curled into a fist. His voice stayed low, but it cut like glass.
âI have six operatives and a ballroom full of targets. If you donât move, we will fail containment and lose the upper tier of three allied defense networks.â
Still nothing.
Then Tristan, colder now:
âTheyâre mobilizing. Not prepping. I repeat, mobilizing. The crates are open. I canât see inside, but one of them just pulled gloves and a radio out of a false panel.â
Bedivereâs feeds blinked hard.
âMultiple floors losing visual. System override from outside. Someoneâs inside our lines.â
In the ballroom, a waiter tripped and dropped a tray then didnât move to pick it up. Instead, he disappeared into the crowd. No ID tag.
Arthurâs voice dropped to a whisper.
âWe need a door. Or weâre going to burn alive in a gala full of billionaires.â
Merlinâs hands moved fast. âCommandâs stalling. Emergency override locked. Iâm trying a private channelââ
Buzz.
Merlinâs personal phone lit up.
One message.
Hey. Need help or you got this?
No name popped up immediately. No insignia. Just the casual threat of someone who already knew the answer.
Merlin tapped into the ballroom camera, or what was left of it.
There she was.
A woman stood motionless in the chaosâwhite hair pinned up with a hairpin. The ballroom pulsed around her: fleeing staff, flickering lights, rising confusion.Â
But she remained still, composed. Eyes like steel under storm clouds locked on the camera feed.
Merlin let out a quiet breath and tapped out a message, eyes on her.
Go ahead.
She smiled as her phone vibrated and then tapped her phone once, then again.
âBackup is en route. Sheâs already in play. Let her handle it.â
Silence followed.
Then Percivalâs voice, low and wary: âDid Command just say she?â
In the ballroom, Gawain blinked hard as someone cleanly plucked an earpiece from his ear. He turned, halfway through a pivotâ
And froze.
She stood there.
Unbothered. Like she hadnât just ghosted into a high-security event through blind spots only Merlin could map. Her dress matched the ballroomâs palette perfectly. Her smirk did not.
She slipped the comm into her own ear.
âEvening, gentlemen,â she said, voice light and lethal. âHeard we were improvising.â
Arthurâs voice cracked like a blade. âIdentify yourself.â
She sighed. Almost playfully. But not quite.
âYou called for backup. I picked up. I assumed thatâs what you lot needed.â
Arthurâs tone dropped, clipped and cold. âUnless you can somehow clear the ballroom, thereâs not much you can offer.â
She didnât answer.
Instead, she moved.
No rush. No panic. Just a brief, graceful slide of her hand as she brushed a passing waiterâs tray. One flute of champagne tilted, fellâ
âright into the lap of an heiress whose family had been blackmailing prime ministers since the Cold War.
The white hair woman shrieked.
âRAT! THEREâS A RAT!â
The scream was shrill. Cutting. Infectious.
A domino effect. A diplomat startled and bumped into a server. Someone stepped on a heel. Glass shattered.
And just like that, the ballroom detonated.
Security rushed in the wrong direction. Guests bolted, stumbling toward exits, tripping over each other in a wave of panic. A centerpiece caught fire. Chairs fell. One man ran into a pillar hard enough to knock himself unconscious.
In under sixty seconds, the floor was clear.
The feed caught a wide shot: empty ballroom, spilled champagne, fractured silence.
ââŚWhat in the actual hell,â Percival muttered.
Arthur stared at the feed.
âThatâll do.â
She smoothed her dress, as though she hadnât just caused a high-society meltdown. Then handed Gawain a small, leather-bound notebookâlight as a promise.
âA little gift for your Commander,â she said. âIf heâs signing the funeral cards, he might as well make it an informed decision.â
She turned to leave.
Arthur didnât move. Not at first. But Merlin looked at him and Arthur didnât need to know what it said.
Weâre out of other options.
âHalt,â Arthur called.
She paused mid-stride.
A quiet settled in the room. Arthur exhaled once, steady but thin.
âWhat else can you do?â
She smiled. Not wide. Not soft.
Like someone who had just been invited to cause more damage.
A/N: Thanks for reading! As you can probably tell, I was binging Spy x Family when this was first drafted lol.
Synopsis: When a mission at a London gala goes horribly wrong, an unaffiliated woman steps in and rewrites the rules. She clears a ballroom in under two minutes, derails the Round Tableâs perfect rhythm, and introuced herself with a smirk as Crown.
Commander Arthur Lancaster, the Black King, heads the Round Table unit of Kingsman with structure, silence, and ruthless efficiency. He doesnât tolerate interference. Yet Crownâs presence keeps proving indispensable: catching blind spots, humiliating poisoned intel, even reframing an op Kingsman shelved for five years.
To the Knights, sheâs disruptive.
To Command, sheâs dangerous.
To Arthur, sheâs an intruder who matches his intent faster than he can speak it.
In Volume 1 of DOMINION, the real question isnât whether the Round Table will survive the field.
Medical Themes: wound care, bandages, stitches, and one incident of withheld medication (antidepressants).
Sexual Tension: flirting, close-quarters intimacy, suggestive banter; no explicit sexual content in Volume 1.
Power Imbalance: Commander/consultant relationship, handled carefully but noted for reader awareness.
đ Please read responsibly. Themes may be triggering for some readers.
Updates: Weekly here on Tumblr | Monthly in 4-chapter chunks on Tapas
(divider by @strangergraphics)
Chapter count: 21
Aside count: 12
Released Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Aside 1 (21 Sept 22:00 EDT or 22 Sept 10:00 PHST)
A/N: The difference between Chapters and Asides is that the latter are usually shorter visually in my head or a single scene. Think like an omake? The story can be read without the asides, and you won't be too lost.
Espionage has a rhythm, a protocol, an unspoken language of control. Crown prefers improvisation.
Welcome to the shadowy world of Kingsmanâan elite intelligence agency operating beyond governmental reach, where even more elite operatives carry Arthurian callsigns and missions play out like chess matches. Arthur Lancaster commands the Round Table: structured, disciplined, and ruthlessly efficient.
Enter Callsign Crown.
Unaffiliated. Unpredictable. Undeniably brilliant. She doesnât belong to Kingsman, yet she always seems to know its moves. And just enough to counter them. When Crown walks into a mission, itâs not to participate; itâs to rewrite the rules entirely. Now, Arthurâs team is forced into an uneasy alliance with a woman who redefines what it means to be a spy: smug, strategic, and dangerously in control.
Found family dynamics: a team tested by loyalty, trust, and Crownâs presence
Emotional strategy: conversations as loaded as weapons, silence as tactical as speech
In DOMINION, the real mission isnât survival. Itâs control. And Crown? She intends to hold all the pieces.
â ď¸ This story contains violence, strong language, trauma references, institutional corruption, medical themes (incl. antidepressants), well-handled power imbalance, and alcohol use. Contains mild sexual tension but no explicit sexual content in Volume 1.
Current Projected Volume Count: 9
Released Volumes:
Volume 1 [ONGOING]
Updates: Weekly here on Tumblr | Monthly in 4-chapter chunks on Tapas
A/N: This is my first time posting a full-length story here on Tumblr, so feedback is welcome (but please be kind!). This is a brainrot project that started as a reimagined Kingsman AU and spiraled into a maxed-out Google Doc. No characters from the OG film or comics â this is all OCs. Enjoy!