The winter night settled heavy on the forest, its silence broken only by the crunch of Arthur and Merlin’s boots on the frozen path. Lanterns swayed at their sides, casting a faint glow through the bare trees as they made their way toward the small, hidden cottage — the one whispered about in village rumors, said to house a witch powerful enough to heal what no physician could.

Merlin stepped forward first, knocking lightly on the worn wooden door, his heart pounding. Arthur hovered close behind, his jaw tight with worry. The faint scent of herbs and smoke drifted out when you cracked the door open, revealing a softly lit cottage lined with dried flowers, bundles of roots, and glass vials that shimmered in the candlelight.

Your eyes, steady and sharp, landed on theirs — two men you recognized instantly from stories, from dreams, from fate itself. You saw the exhaustion written across their faces, a quiet, desperate hope hiding behind their practiced stoicism.

Merlin’s voice wavered, breaking the stillness. “Guinevere,” he began, his hands twisting nervously, “the Queen… she’s fallen ill. Nothing in Camelot is helping her.”

Arthur stepped forward then, pride forgotten, eyes filled with raw pain. “She is… everything to me,” he confessed, the words catching in his throat. “I would beg, if that’s what it takes.”

You studied them for a long moment, the weight of their trust sinking into your chest. These men had come to you, a witch hidden beyond the edges of their kingdom, when even the great halls of Camelot had failed.