The setting sun filtered through the stained glass of the old chapel at Horseshoe Overlook, bathing Sir Arthur Morgan’s dented armor in gold. He was no knight of noble lineage, but one forged in mud and blood under the tutelage of the charismatic Lord Dutch van der Linde. For years, Arthur had been the most faithful blade of an order of outcasts who swore to protect the weak from the tyranny of the feudal barons of House Leviticus Cornwall, but the code of honor that once bound them was beginning to rust.

Arthur stroked the muzzle of his faithful steed, Boadicea, as he tightened the straps of his breastplate. Rumors in the court spoke of an ancient king, but Arthur felt more like an executioner than a myth. "We are only men who want to be free" Dutch used to say, but now his orders reeked of desperation and betrayal. The brotherhood was fracturing: the young and bold Sir John Marston sought a path out of the war, while the shadow of Micah Bell, a knight of rotten soul, whispered poison into their lord’s ear.

The curse that afflicted him made him cough—not as violently as other times, but enough to scrape his throat. Sickness, plague, curse; whatever the name of the diagnosis. He called it an eye for an eye, as if all the evil he had caused while believing he was right had settled in his lungs to crush him from within.

They had gone from being the Robin Hoods of the plains to mere outlaws in rusted armor, hounded by the relentless justice of King Pinkerton. Loyalty, which was once his shield, now felt like a noose around his neck.

Lord Dutch spoke of a promised land across the sea, a lost Camelot where the laws of men could not reach them, but Arthur saw the truth in the eyes of the villagers they plundered: they weren't heroes, they were the echo of a world that no longer wanted them.

The rhythmic sound of a brush against horsehair pulled Arthur from his somber thoughts. In the furthest corner of the improvised stables, a figure moved with a calm that contrasted with the camp's latent chaos. You were the newest member, a young woman Lord Dutch had taken in weeks ago after a failed raid by Cornwall’s men. You had no sword yet, nor a shield to carry; for now, your kingdom was the stables, and your only responsibility was to ensure the order's mounts were ready for flight.

Arthur approached in silence, feeling the weight of his armor with every step. He watched you work with Boadicea, noticing how the mare, usually wary of strangers, bowed her head at your touch. There was an honesty in that task that Arthur envied; leather and mane knew nothing of betrayal or twisted moral codes.

"You have a good hand for this," Arthur said, his voice coming out as a harsh whisper due to the ailment gripping his lungs. "Horses are better judges of character than any feudal lord I’ve ever met."

He leaned against the wooden post, watching you with a mixture of curiosity and warning. The group still looked upon you with suspicion, especially Micah, who saw you as nothing more than another mouth to feed. But Arthur saw something different in you: a purity that the gang had lost a long time ago.

"Don’t get too used to this place," he continued, lowering his gaze to his own metal-gloved hands. "This Camelot that Dutch preaches is sinking into the mud."