Gawain didn’t usually take suggestions from people he hadn’t 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 didn’t exist.

He circled the room slowly. Glass in hand. Eyes half-lidded. Smile soft.

All he needed was a break in the tempo.

That’s when he saw her.

Far end of the corridor.
Just a glimpse—white hair, poised stride, calm in a room full of chaos.

Their eyes met. One beat.

She didn’t nod. Didn’t 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 man’s 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.

“East wing secure. Two down.”

Pause.

“Also, someone let Crown know her sense of timing is... obnoxiously perfect.”

He glanced once toward the hall.

She was already gone.

Because of course she was.

He chuckled, half under his breath.

“And here I thought I was the dramatic one.”

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 wasn’t ready.

He adjusted his elevation by a fraction, followed the mark across the top edge of a floral display—

Until, he caught a reflection.

Not the mark.

White hair. Steady gaze. She wasn’t 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 didn’t 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.

That’s when the op broke.

Lancelot tore through the hallway of the eastern wing and passed the clear doors pursuing two armed men—fast, lethal, close-quarters chaos.

Percival came in loud. A freight-train charge through the ballroom’s 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 Tristan’s 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.

“Target down. West perimeter clear.”

His eye stayed in the scope a moment longer.
The mirror was empty now.

Crown was gone.

No radio. No signal. No need.

She’d 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.

“I’m being pursued hotly. And not in a good way.” Galahad’s voice was sharp in Arthur’s ear. Footsteps pounding. Breathing ragged. Gunshots whizzed past him. “I thought doorway 06A was supposed to be open!”

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 should’ve triggered.

It didn’t.

Arthur’s blood chilled.

“Bedivere,” Arthur snapped. “Why hasn’t it triggered?”

Bedivere was already moving.

“It’s listed green! System shows it’s cleared—wait—mechanical’s not responding—!”

The feed glitched. A split second of stillness.

“Try down the hall.” Crown’s 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.

Arthur’s screen snapped back into clarity.

Galahad cleared the breach, sprinted into the corridor—and behind him, stamped into the doorframe—

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 Tristan’s scope feed.

“Visual on Galahad. I’ve got him. Corridor’s covered.”

Arthur didn’t move.

Galahad had survived not because the system worked—but 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 wasn’t freelancing.

She was following him—but faster.

He keyed the comm once.

Low. Controlled.

“Let her run with it.”

Then he stepped back from the board—

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.

“Mission complete.”

Arthur stood at the edge of the ops table, eyes on the feed.

The Knights were gathered now—silent, steady, watching.

The ballroom was still.

Galahad was brushing debris off his coat.

Lancelot and Percival had already moved to cover.

Tristan’s rifle had gone quiet.

Bedivere was already syncing data.

And Gawain?

He stood at ease, hands in his pockets, wearing the same expression he’d had when she first borrowed his comm—like he’d 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.

“I did say I’d make it run smoothly,” 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.

“Show-off.”

Crown glanced sideways without breaking stride.

“If I wanted to show off,” she said, “I’d steal the spotlight.”

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.

“But hey,” she added, “I do like making good men shine.”

And then she walked out of the gala.

Heels clicking.
Pace unhurried.
Presence undeniable.

Arthur didn’t speak.

But he was still watching.

And he knew—

This wasn’t over.

Wyvern Grayson had just entered the game.

And Kingsman?

Kingsman played for keeps.