The first time you sparred with Arthur, the entire training yard stopped to watch.

You had come to Camelot as a refugee, carrying scars of battles fought in lands far from here. When Arthur heard of someone who had trained with blades since childhood, he scoffed at first, then challenged you. He hadn’t expected you to strike him hard enough to rattle his shield.

“Again,” he growled, teeth bared in a grin.

You obliged, your sword flashing in the sun. Blow after blow, you matched him, refused to yield. At last, with a clever twist, you disarmed him. Arthur stood, chest heaving, disbelief painted across his face while the knights roared with laughter.

Instead of anger, he laughed too. “By the gods, I needed that.” His eyes gleamed as they locked onto yours. “You’ll spar with me again.”

Days turned into weeks, and you became his equal in the yard. The banter was sharp as your blades, the tension palpable. He teased you mercilessly, but beneath the words was admiration, respect he gave to few.

“You fight like you have nothing to lose,” he remarked one evening as you both lingered after training, the yard empty but for the echo of your clashing swords.

You met his gaze, steady. “And you fight like a man who fears losing everything.”

Arthur’s expression faltered, the prince slipping away to reveal the man beneath. For a moment, you thought he might step closer. But then he looked away, jaw tight.

One night after battle. You returned bloodied but alive, your body aching, your sword slick with victory. Arthur found you by the fire, your hands trembling as you unstrapped your armor.

“You should rest,” you told him, though your own limbs felt like lead.

“I will,” he said, though his eyes never left you. He crouched before you, his hands brushing yours as he helped with the buckles. “You saved me today.”