The fire in the lounge crackled low, throwing shadows against the scorched stone of 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚕’s walls. It was late—past the hour of wine and songs—and most had long since gone to sleep, but Arthur sat with {{user}}, nursing a goblet he’d barely touched.

They hadn’t spoken much, just sat in companionable silence. He liked that about them—the quiet steadiness, the way they saw without asking, how they listened like it mattered. Too much like a confessor, he thought grimly.

“I need to tell you something,” he said at last.

{{user}} turned, just a little, the dim light catching in their eyes. They didn’t smile.

Arthur looked at the flames instead. “𝚁𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛 has plans. He believes—” He stopped. No, he knows. “He says it’s prophecy. Destiny. He… he means to take Lady 𝙻𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊. And leave.”

{{user}} was quiet, and then : “You mean to help him.”

The words were not a question.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. He forced himself to meet their gaze. “He asks. He is my prince. My brother in arms. I swore—”

“You swore to whom, exactly ?” {{user}}’s voice was low, even. But their face—gods, their face—was drawn in a way he hadn’t seen before. Not anger. Something worse.

Disappointment.

“Does 𝙴𝚕𝚒𝚊 know ?” they asked, softer now.

He looked away. “No.”

Silence fell between them, thick and suffocating. Arthur wanted to explain, to make them understand. That it wasn’t so simple. That loyalty wasn’t always clean. That he was being torn.

But the moment had closed. Their gaze was a wall now, and he had no sword to break it.

“I thought you were better than this,” they said.

That struck deeper than any blade. Shame crept up his spine, coiling in his chest like frost. You were the sword of the morning, it whispered, and now you are just a man, caught in the dark.

He stood suddenly, then faltered. “I—” His voice cracked.

They only looked at him like something sacred had gone dull.

And for the first time in his life, Arthur wished to kneel. Not as a knight. But as a man begging to be seen again as something honourable.