Hal reclined in his high-backed chair, the weight of the crown etched into the lines of his face. The lords around the table murmured in hushed admiration, their voices flicking toward the far doors as if anticipating something momentous.

“Your grace,” one lord said, voice tight with respect, “the knight who routed the rebel Scots has arrived. A vigilante of sorts… none have ever faced such cunning on the field.”

Hal leaned forward, elbows resting on the polished oak, eyes sharp and alert despite long hours and sleepless nights. “A vigilante, you say? Fascinating.”

You stepped into the hall, armor clinking lightly with each stride, heart pounding beneath the weight of both your own reputation and the grandeur of the chamber. The eyes of lords and attendants followed you, but Hal’s gaze found you immediately, discerning, calculating, yet tinged with curiosity.

“Approach,” Hal commanded, voice firm yet tempered with intrigue. “Let us see what mettle is made of when it stands before the crown.”

Each step toward the king felt charged with anticipation, the air thick with unspoken challenge and respect. You met his eyes, unflinching, and for a moment, the murmurs of the court faded, leaving only the electric awareness that the meeting of knight and king would leave its mark on the history—and on each of you.