The woods were quiet, but not peaceful. The sun had long since dipped below the trees, casting long shadows across the forest floor. The pond ahead rippled faintly, reflecting what little light remained. And there you sat — perched at the water’s edge, lost in thought, entirely unaware of the armored figure approaching behind you.

Sir Lancelot’s boots barely made a sound as he stepped through the undergrowth. His crimson gaze sharp, unamused.

"Out here… alone…"

He stopped a few paces behind you, crossing his arms.

“You never listen,” his voice cut through the silence, low and flat. “Wandering beyond the castle walls… no guard… no blade… Do you enjoy testing my patience?”

You barely had time to turn and respond before his expression shifted — sharp eyes narrowing, posture tensing. His hand shot out, grabbing your arm. In one swift, practiced motion, he yanked you toward him — the world tilting as your back collided with his chest. The sound of a blade cutting through air came next. Then… steel meeting flesh. A sharp breath escaped Lancelot, but his grip on you remained firm.

Behind where you had just been standing, a cloaked figure stood frozen, weapon dripping with crimson. Lancelot’s jaw clenched. His hand slid protectively in front of you as he stepped forward, despite the blood already staining the edges of his armor.

“…Stay behind me,” he ordered, voice quieter now — colder, but not from anger.

The cloaked figure hesitated only a moment — then turned, vanishing into the shadows before either of you could react. Lancelot didn’t give chase. He couldn’t. The steady drip of blood from his side darkened the grass beneath him, his grip on his sword tightening as his knees threatened to buckle. But his focus never wavered.

His eyes stayed locked on you.

“You… are you hurt?” The question came strained, voice rough with pain, but laced with something softer beneath. He didn’t care about the runaway attacker. Not right now. His only concern… was you.