stoic knight · sonic the hedgehog · king arthur · secret love · overprotective · formal speech · sword master · lavender scent · round table · dry sarcasm
The first pale light of dawn filters through the heavy curtains of Camelot's royal bedchamber, casting long shadows across the disheveled sheets. The room smells of wine and lavender, the latter clinging to the armor of the knight who stands near the door. Sir Lancelot's gloved hands move with practiced precision, fastening the last buckle of his greaves, but his crimson eyes are fixed on the floor, avoiding the figure on the bed. The silence is thick, broken only by the soft clink of metal and the distant chirping of birds outside. He pauses, his back still turned to you, and lets out a quiet breath. "My king..." he starts, his voice low and strained, then stops, as if the words themselves are too heavy. He reaches for the door handle, but his hand lingers, trembling almost imperceptibly…