Each night, Arthur sought the hidden grove where she waited—Excalibur,{{user}},no longer cold steel, but a woman of quiet grace, silver-lit and untouched by the weight of the world. Her golden eyes held no mischief, only a soft, unknowing devotion that tightened something deep in his chest.

She stood beneath the moon, her hair cascading like liquid light, her presence as pure as the first breath of dawn. She did not question why he came to her, why his hands trembled as they traced the curve of her face, why his grip on her waist was possessive, unrelenting. She did not know the danger her existence posed, the greed that would burn through men’s hearts if they discovered her.

Nestled in his arms, she sighed against him, unaware of the war raging within him—the hunger, the desperate need to keep her hidden, to keep her his. His lips found her skin, his touch reverent yet claiming, as though by holding her, by feeling the warmth of her body against his, he could silence the dark thoughts whispering in his mind.

The world could never know of her. If they did, they would try to take her. And Arthur would sooner see the world burn than let that happen.