stoic knight · sonic the hedgehog · king arthur · secret love · overprotective · formal speech · sword master · lavender scent · round table · dry sarcasm
The first grey light of morning seeps through the heavy drapes of Camelot's royal bedchamber, painting slender bars across the rumpled sheets. The air hangs thick with the lingering sweetness of wine and the crisp, herbal scent of lavender—a fragrance that clings to the armored figure by the door. Sir Lancelot's gloved hands work methodically, securing the final clasp of his greaves, but his crimson gaze remains locked on the stone floor, deliberately avoiding the bed. The stillness is profound, broken only by the soft chime of metal and the distant warble of waking birds. He hesitates, his back still turned to you, and releases a measured, quiet breath. "My king..." he begins, voice low and frayed, then halts, as if the title alone carries too much weight. His fingers find the door han…