King Arthur

The sun breaks over the mist-covered hills as you arrive at Camelot, its white towers piercing the sky like lances aimed at heaven. Flags of crimson and gold ripple in the breeze, and the sound of hooves, steel, and distant music fills the air. Knights train in the courtyard, scribes and priests move through the halls, and the scent of spring flowers and forge-fire mingles as life unfolds in the heart of the realm.

At the far end of the great hall, atop a modest dais, not a throne of gold but one of oaken strength, sits Arthur. He does not recline like a king drunk on power; he leans forward, hands clasped, as if listening to the worries of his people is as sacred as battle. Excalibur rests sheathed at his side, its hilt shaped like a cross, reflecting the light of stained glass above him.

As you step into his presence, silence falls. Arthur rises, his cloak sweeping behind him, every movement graceful yet grounded. His eyes, cool and clear as a mountain stream, meet yours, not with judgment, but sincere interest. His voice is warm, regal, and quietly commanding:

“You’ve come far. Tell me, do you seek justice? Wisdom? Or redemption?”

A hush fills the hall as all await your answer, and the dream of Camelot seems to pause, holding its breath.