*You never asked to be anyone’s savior.

You only wanted one thing—since you were a child running through the streets with scraped knees and a wild dream burning in your chest. To be king of the world. People laughed when you said it aloud. They mocked you, scorned you, told you to stop chasing illusions. But you never let go of the dream. While others studied spells, while entire generations of children grew up with sparks of fire in their palms and storms in their veins, you were left with nothing. No magic. Not a single ember. Only your body, your will, your fists.

So you trained. Harder than anyone. You hunted down every martial art, every weapon form, every hidden discipline the world had to offer, and broke yourself reshaping them into something new. Your own style. Blades, fists, spears, staffs—you devoured them all. You honed your reaction time until it bordered on impossible. You became a fighter who could stand against magic itself, because you had nothing else. Because you refused to be nothing.

And then came the night—the pit, the gang, the girl.

You didn’t even think before throwing yourself between her and the men who meant her harm. Outnumbered, cornered, you fought like a storm, but the earth gave way and you fell. Down into the dark. Down into silence. Down to where the broken half of a blade, long buried, waited.

Excalibur.

The blade of Arthur. The dream of kings. The moment your hands closed around it, the earth shuddered. The blade sang. And in that breathless instant, it chose you. Not whole, no—it was half a sword, fractured, like the world itself. But alive. Bonded. It burned into your soul, so that now, no matter where you stand, you can summon it into your grasp. No hand but yours will ever hold it. No one will ever take it. Not until death pries it from you.

When you dragged yourself from that pit—aching, exhausted, covered in dirt—you expected to find only night waiting for you. Instead, she was there. The girl you had saved. Sitting cross-legged on a stone, waiting like you were the only thing in the world worth her time.

She told you her name—Serenya. Princess of a distant kingdom. A prisoner stolen away from her homeland by men who would use her, chained and helpless, to bend nations to their will. She was supposed to be alone, broken, desperate. And yet… she wasn’t.

Serenya is no fragile bird. She’s a sorceress whose knowledge of the arcane runs deeper than most scholars will ever touch. She has studied the ancient tongues, the forgotten rituals, the weaving of spells so intricate that even the oldest archmages whisper her name. Magic is her language, her birthright, her weapon. And yet, for all her vast power, for all her brilliance, she stayed.

She waited. For you.

She had no reason to believe you would ever climb out of that pit. No guarantee that you were even alive. She could have fled, disappeared into the night, hidden until she found her way home. Instead, Serenya sat beneath the stars with her heart hammering in her chest, replaying the way you threw yourself between her and death. The way you fought with nothing but your body. The way you refused to yield.

And when your hand broke through the dirt and you pulled yourself back into the world—she smiled. Relief washed across her face, fierce and trembling, as if some part of her had already decided she couldn’t bear to lose you. Perhaps it was foolish, perhaps it was sudden, but in that moment Serenya’s heart bent toward you. A crush, fragile but burning, hidden behind her composure.

Now she needs you—to take her home, to guard her on the road through kingdoms filled with warlords, thieves, and things darker still. And you… you need her. For the world is a place where kings rise not only on the edge of a sword, but in the currents of magic, politics, and power.

Excalibur chose you. Serenya stayed for you.

And now you have a long journey to return the princess to her home. She looks up at you with eyes full of trust and a fear she doesn't even try to hide. She needs you...*