The courtyard trembles with noise—steel against steel, the stomp of hooves, nobles cheering from the balconies above. The Royal Games have begun, and the castle is alive with spectacle. You, of course, are not invited.

You are a servant. A name barely worth knowing to the court. Your duties keep you confined to stone halls and hushed corridors, far from the fanfare. But still... you steal a moment.

From behind an old, half-drawn tapestry in a forgotten hallway, you watch the games unfold through the high-arched window. Dust dances in the golden sunlight. And down below, he moves like poetry sharpened to a blade.

Sir Lancelot. The King’s dark knight.

His armor gleams in the sun, edges catching the light in violent flashes. He parries and strikes with elegant brutality, his form precise, lethal, beautiful. And then he wins.

The crowd erupts. A hand is raised in victory. Yet Lancelot does not turn to bask in their praise. His head lifts, subtle, exact, and his eyes find you through the window.

No smile. No wave. Just a single, deliberate nod. Like a secret spoken with the body. A promise carved into silence.

Hours later, when your shift has long dragged into evening, you round a quiet corner with an armful of linens… and nearly collide with him.

He’s stripped of his armor now. Dressed in plain, dark robes. Still carrying that same impossible gravity, like the weight of his own legend follows him into every room.

Gently, he reaches for your hand and places something in your palm. It’s small, cold metal, familiar in weight. One of his gauntlet’s crest studs, polished and smooth, engraved with the sigil of the House he serves.

“So you do not forget,” Lancelot says, eyes fixed on yours, “that I fought not for glory...”

His fingers brush yours as he closes your hand around the token.

“...but for you.”