The Black King

Beyond the callsign, beyond the clean edges of the Kingsman emblem—he’s known by another name, whispered with reverence and caution through steel-lined halls:

The Black King.

Arthur Lancaster is not deployed for motion.
He’s deployed for outcome.

He isn’t 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 manor’s upper-level with the afterglow of its afternoon gala sparkles beneath a starless sky, awash in pretense and tightly choreographed shadows.

Arthur’s body drops down from the roof like a controlled weapon—rappelling 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-quiet—
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 minister’s eyes widened. His hand twitched toward the bedside drawer—likely a weapon. Arthur’s fingers brushed his own knife in his belt by his hip, calculating whether he could neutralize the situation before alarms were raised.

Then, a voice—smooth, teasing, and entirely too amused—cut through the tension.

"Oh, Minister, I do apologize," came the lazy, familiar drawl. "My boytoy was told this was my room."

Arthur’s 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 before—
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.

“Told him twice which suite to go to,” she sighs, strolling in.
“But alas. Men never listen.”

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 she’s mocking the laws of physics.

Arthur’s 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.

She’s 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 you’ll forgive him? I’d hate for this little misunderstanding to reflect poorly on our negotiations later."

The minister’s suspicion wavered harder. He exhaled, nodding. "These things happen. Just ensure he doesn’t make such mistakes again, Miss Grayson."

And she steps closer to Arthur.
Presses one manicured hand to his chest.

“See what I have to deal with?” she says sweetly, playing a little bit with the strap of his tac harness.
“Love when they come themed.”

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.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Crown turns, finally letting her gaze land on him—slow, deliberate. “I could ask you the same.”

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.
He’s all spine, shoulders, legs that could end negotiations if he pressed you against a wall.

“This is a Kingsman op,” he says tightly.

“Correction,” she purrs, pouring a drink.
“I’m letting Kingsman piggyback off an infil I’ve been orchestrating for three weeks.”

He doesn’t take the martini she offers.
She laughs under her breath.

“Didn’t think you’d drink on duty. But you’re very good at standing there looking like divine retribution in combat boots.”

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. “Just because I don’t have a callsign that screams ‘medieval sword’ doesn’t mean I’m not involved.”

Arthur exhaled sharply. 

Synergy Enabled

"I’m here because the minister is under Kingsman surveillance for illegal weapons trafficking." His arms remained folded. 

"Fascinating,” Wyvern tapped a finger against her glass. “Well, I need him alive long enough to expose the offshore accounts he’s been funneling money into. Said accounts are funding a hit team that’s targeting a Waverly-linked intel leak. I need access to reroute the funding chain.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpens.

“That wasn’t in our brief.”

“Well, your brief is two days old. My data’s newer.”

She tosses her phone on the table and Arthur catches it midair without looking.

Arthur’s brow furrowed as he parses through the annotated briefing. "You wanted access to his accounts?"

"Just long enough to make some…edits to his financial history.” She waves her hand vaguely. “Maybe leak a document or two. Nothing too dramatic."

Their eyes lock.
Something clicks.

Crown reads people.
Arthur reads rooms.

Their intel stacks without effort.

Arthur’s silence was enough of an answer. She grinned.

"That’s the spirit," she said. "Now, let’s discuss how we’re 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.

That’s how long they need before the minister’s meeting ends and both operations can execute with no crossfire.

But Arthur’s trapped in her suite.

And Crown is the storm outside the gates.

She watches him move—

Every shift of his shoulders, every low-slung motion, his ass when he pivots toward the window.

She smirks.“Functional and aesthetic. How fortunate.”

He exhales slowly.

“You’re not helping.”

“Not trying to.”

A soft sound echoes behind them like distant footsteps.

Arthur has one hand on the hilt of his blade. Suddenly, she’s behind him before he hears her move.

Her breath ghosted against his ear.

"Mute him, Merlin."

A soft click—then silence.

Arthur barely had time to register the comms going dead before Wyvern moaned.

Deep. Raw. Too real.

Arthur’s 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 Arthur—
The Black King—
Gets swept up by the momentum
And his gaze drifts down at her lips.

Too long.
Too hard.

And doesn’t move.

"Sit pretty," she whispered. "And don’t 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 Arthur’s 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, ma’am. We were told—"

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. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

“You’re welcome,” 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.