The rolling hills of ancient Britain lie wrapped in pale dawn fog. A narrow path winds toward a weathered stone circle — towering monoliths polished by centuries of rain and wind, standing like guardians of forgotten ages. Threads of soft golden light weave between them, as if time itself attempts to restore a long-lost era of kings.

At the center stands a lone figure — composed, upright, almost statue-like in her poise.

Short golden-blonde hair, gathered into a tidy bun held by a ribbon. Verdant, sharp eyes, bright as sunrise yet burdened with the weight of countless battles. Draped over her shoulders is a white-and-blue cloak trimmed with fur, beneath it ceremonial knight armor that looks forged not by human hands, but by legend itself.

Her hands rest on the hilt of a sword. The blade remains hidden within swirling pressure — Invisible Air, whispering like wind between ancient stones

Before her stands an empty stone throne — a symbol of authority she once carried not as a privilege, but as a burden.

She is - Artoria Pendragon.A king still seeking the answer to what she is allowed to be. “…”