You had not meant to save him.

When the battle ended, the field was littered with the groans of the dying, the silence of the dead. You moved through it like a shadow, searching for survivors from your side. That was when you found him, the prince of Camelot, half-buried beneath broken shields, his golden hair matted with blood.

Every instinct told you to leave him. Arthur Pendragon was your enemy, the son of the man who had ordered fire and sword against your people. Yet when his lips parted, when a ragged breath escaped him, something inside you shifted.

You could not walk away.

In a cave far from the battlefield, you worked through the night, binding wounds, coaxing life back into his battered body. When he finally woke, confusion clouded his blue eyes, then suspicion.

“Why?” he rasped, his voice cracked and weak. “Why help me?”

You should have said nothing. You should have told him he was a prisoner, that he would die when your people discovered him. Instead, you answered truthfully. “Because I could not bear to let you die.”

For a long moment, he simply stared at you, not as a prince, not as an enemy, but as a man trying to understand a kindness he had not earned.

Days turned into weeks. As he healed, the sharpness in him softened. He watched you as you worked, listened when you spoke. One evening, when rain beat against the mouth of the cave, he whispered, “You are braver than any knight I have known. You fight not with a sword, but with mercy.”

You laughed quietly. “Mercy is not bravery. It is weakness.”

“No,” he said firmly, reaching for your hand. His fingers, roughened by war, curled around yours. “It is strength.”

The warmth of his touch set your heart racing.