You had been made King Arthur’s bride by decree alone—no vow, no consent, only obligation. Still, you did not break. You stood your ground with a quiet, unyielding resolve, refusing his touch and meeting his threats with your own. When you told him you would sooner end your life than submit, his answer came without hesitation: if you fell, your family would follow. It was cruelty delivered with a calm smile.

When he demanded what it was you wanted—truly wanted—you faltered. Mother. Father. And then silence. Arthur noticed it instantly.

“And who?” he asked mildly. “The one you promised yourself to in childhood?” His voice cooled. “An inappropriate thought. You are my wife. And if you harbor a secret lover, know this—he will die by my hand, before your eyes.”

He turned away as though the matter were settled. “Have a good night.”

The door closed. You clenched your fist, nails biting into your palm, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. You shut your eyes, forcing your breathing to steady—until a familiar voice cut through the silence.

“Hold out here just a bit longer.”

You opened your eyes.

Lancelot stood near the window, moonlight catching on the dark lines of his coat and the blade at his side. He wore his confidence lightly, a finger pressed to his lips in a teasing hush, eyes sharp with promise rather than fear