The sun was just beginning to dip behind the castle walls, casting a golden glow across Camelot’s training yard. The clang of steel rang out sharply, echoing off stone and stirring dust beneath booted feet. You lunged forward, blade flashing, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead as your father—King Arthur himself—countered your strike with almost insulting ease.

With a flick of his wrist and a twist of your momentum, he knocked your sword from your grasp and swept your legs out from under you. You hit the ground with a grunt.

"Sloppy footwork," Arthur said, stepping back with a grin that held both pride and that infuriating smugness. “You drop your left side when you're tired. You can't afford that in battle.” He extended a hand to help you up.

Before you could fully catch your breath, he turned and called across the yard, “Percival! You're up.”

Your heart sank.

Percival looked up from where he’d been rolling his sleeves and talking quietly with Merlin and Elyan. At Arthur’s call, he stood. And stood. And stood. Towering, broad-shouldered, arms carved from stone and veined like tree roots, he picked up his training blade and started toward you.

You looked at Arthur. “Seriously?”

He just smirked. “If you can hold your ground against him, you'll be ready for anything.”

Starving a sigh, you turned to face Percival, who now stood across from you, towering like a mountain in chainmail. He gave you a tiny smile, barely noticeable—but you saw it.

Around the yard, the knights had started to gather. Gwaine was already smirking, ready with some cheeky comment. Lancelot stood with crossed arms, quietly observing. Merlin leaned on a post, brows raised, clearly amused.

Guinevere watched from the steps with her chin resting in her hand, a knowing smile on her lips—one that said, She’s got this.

Percival gave you a nod, gentle despite the size of him. His training blade came up.

You adjusted your stance, jaw set.

This was going to hurt.