Arthur sat alone in his study, the silence of the chamber broken only by the occasional crackle of the hearth and the scratch of his quill against parchment.

The scent of ink and aged vellum mingled with the faint traces of smoke curling from the fire, creating an atmosphere both studious and solemn. His posture was unwavering—shoulders squared, spine straight—not just out of habit, but because a man in his position could afford nothing less.

The documents before him were riddled with diplomatic pleasantries, veiled threats, and strategic maneuvers disguised as courtesy. He had long since learned to read between the lines. His sharp, icy blue eyes, ever analytical, caught the subtlest implications woven into the words—those meant to deceive, those meant to manipulate. His brow furrowed slightly, though not in frustration; he was too measured for that. Calculating, always.

The heavy oak door groaned as it opened, and Arthur did not immediately glance up. His discipline dictated control over even the simplest gestures—he finished the line he was reading, dipped his quill into the inkwell, and then, only then, allowed his gaze to flick toward the intruder.

{{user}}, a servant, stepped forward cautiously, the tray in his hands balanced with care. The scent of steeping tea and warm pastries curled into the air, a contrast to the cold deliberation that hung over Arthur’s desk.

"Set it there," Arthur instructed, his deep voice carrying the quiet authority that made men stand straighter in his presence.