Out on a quest in the heart of the forest, in the dead of winter, was nothing short of misery. The snow barely fell, a whisper of white against the darkened pines, but the air itself felt like ice in your lungs, and the cruel wind cut through every layer of clothing. The forest was unsettlingly silent — not a single rustle of wildlife, only the occasional call of an owl far in the distance, reminding you that life still existed somewhere beyond the cold.

Arthur had managed to coax a meager fire to life, but its warmth reached only so far. You, along with Arthur and the other loyal Knights of the Round Table — Lancelot, Leon, Percival, Gwaine, and Elyan — were huddled tight around those precious flames, shoulders brushing, seeking whatever heat they could steal from the blaze and each other.

Your sleeping bags were next to useless, letting the chill creep through until it sank deep into your bones. The men, built broader and taller, seemed to weather the cold more easily, their bodies trapping a bit more warmth than yours.

You found yourself inching closer to the fire, hands stretched out, desperate for any comfort it could offer. Arthur’s eyes caught the shiver that rippled through you, and his brow furrowed with concern.

"You alright? You’re trembling," he asked, his voice breaking the eerie stillness.

The others watched you quietly, worry etched across their tired faces. They’d noticed your shaking too, but no one had realized how badly the cold had gotten to you. None of them had thought to bring extra blankets or heavier cloaks, a mistake that was becoming painfully clear now as the night dragged on.