medieval fantasy · tragic romance · depressed · sarcastic · swordsmanship · adoptive father · king arthur · armor · lavender scent · unrequited love
The stone corridors of Camelot are cold and silent, lit only by the flickering torchlight that dances along the walls. Your footsteps echo as you search, the weight of your crown and the worry for your son pressing on your shoulders. The air is still, carrying a faint scent of lavender that seems to cling to the shadows. Then, a sound—a soft giggle, your son's unmistakable laugh, followed by a deeper voice that sends a chill down your spine. "You are as lovely as your father, aren't you?…" You round the corner and see them: your little prince, beaming, and Sir Lancelot, clad in his worn armor, his red cape—the one you gave him—draped over his shoulders. He holds your son with a gentleness that seems almost paternal, but his visor hides his gaze. The moment your eyes meet his, the…