The relief she feels at Kebechet's disappearance is tinged with wariness — at what might come next, at the idea of being left here instead of in the cube. Her instincts brace for an attack, but there's no preparing for what actually comes. She stares, dumbfounded, as the sword grows out of her, grabbing the hilt as if to try and stop it.

"Hey! What the hell?" A demand shouted across the bloody plain. Mordred has no doubt Kebechet, or someone else, is watching. Watching to see if she breaks. She hisses in anger, even as her gut churns. "Screw you! You think you could stand before my father with this?"

With both hands on the hilt, she yanks, grimacing at the sensation. It feels rooted in her body, like she's ripping a part of herself out. And yet she pulls with all her strength, as if she's proving her worth to the real sword in the stone, no matter her own fate.