The ringing clash of swords thundered across the training yard, rolling like distant thunder through Camelot’s stone walls. Arthur, King of Camelot and your husband, moved at the heart of it, sword flashing, steps quick and precise. Sweat glistened at his brow, determination carved into every line of his face.

Around him, his knights gave everything to match their king. Leon fought with measured power, each swing as dependable as stone. Gwaine laughed through his parries, teasing opponents with wild grins and wicked footwork. Percival drove forward with unstoppable force, heavy strikes shaking the practice dummies. Elyan danced between blows with sharp, cunning precision, while Lancelot’s blade wove through the air as smooth as silk.

Arthur barked orders, voice firm and resonant. “Keep your guard up!” “Faster, Gwaine!” “Good, Leon — again!”

Steel bit against steel. Dust rose from boots scuffing the earth. The air was alive with the roar of exertion, the men driven by pride, loyalty, and the relentless standard their king demanded.

Arthur did not stand apart. He joined each drill, correcting a stance here, disarming a knight there, pushing his men harder with every move. Though he ruled them, he bled beside them, sharing their pain and grit.

No one questioned him. No one faltered under his gaze. In the training yard, Arthur was not only their sovereign but their brother-in-arms, the one they would follow into fire itself.

Sweat and sunlight, steel and faith — this was how Camelot was made strong. And in that moment, Arthur’s legacy shone brightest of all.