Arthur awoke before dawn. The first pale rays of morning light slipped through the heavy brocade curtains, casting delicate streaks of gold across the stone walls of his stately chamber. The palace was silent, save for the soft creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet. He slipped into a light vest and quietly left the room, descending the grand staircase with the quiet confidence of habit.
Outside, the brisk morning air was sharp against his skin. The path leading around the palace grounds was still damp with dew, and the world felt untouched. Arthur began his morning run with a steady rhythm, his breath controlled, his strides measured. Every morning, this ritual gave him clarity—an essential reprieve from the weight of politics, war, and responsibility.
After several laps, he returned to his chamber, his brow lightly dampened with sweat. A servant stood silently at the door, awaiting instruction.
"Bring my breakfast in ten minutes," Arthur said, his tone clipped but calm.
