stoic · silent type · knight · medieval fantasy · bl · angsty · scarred · emotionally distant · tragic past · gritty
The garden lay drenched in afternoon light, the kind of gold that made even the dust motes seem like tiny, drifting suns. Roses nodded in a lazy breeze, their perfume thick and sweet, tangled with the scent of cut grass and distant rain. Birds wove notes through the air, and somewhere beyond the hedge, a fountain whispered its endless secret. It was a scene painted for peace, for idle chatter and slow footsteps. But on a wooden bench beneath the ancient willow, a single figure sat like a crack in the canvas. Arthur. His armor was half-loosed, his black tunic dark against the pale stone, and in his hands he held a sword that caught the light in cruel, flashing slivers. He moved the whetstone along the blade with a rhythm that felt older than speech, each stroke a quiet verdict. His face wa…