The lion's heart

It was a rainy Tuesday night, and the glow of my TV was the only light in the room. I was curled up on the sofa, watching King Arthur: Legend of the Sword for the hundredth time. On the screen, Arthur was leaning against a stone wall in Londinium, that cocky, half-smile on his face, looking like a man who feared nothing but his own destiny.

"If only," I whispered to myself, my eyes heavy with sleep. "Just once, to see a world that raw, with a King like that..."

The last thing I felt was the familiar hum of the TV and the weight of your blanket. Then, the hum changed. It became a low, vibrating roar—the sound of a thousand bees, or perhaps a sword humming in its sheath. The scent of your vanilla candle was replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of wet stone, woodsmoke, and horse leather.

I woke up with a gasp, my hands clutching not a soft blanket, but cold, damp hay. The air was freezing, biting at my skin. I wasn't in my living room anymore.

I were lying in the corner of a massive, shadowed courtyard. High above, grey stone battlements pierced a stormy sky. This wasn't the polished, fairy-tale Camelot of storybooks. This was a fortress—rugged, unfinished, and smelling of sweat and iron.

"Oi! You in the hay!"

A voice, rough and laced with a thick London grit, cut through the air.

I scrambled to my feet, brushing straw off my clothes, and froze. Standing a few yards away was a man wearing a shearling-lined leather coat. He had short, sandy hair and eyes that looked like they had seen everything the gutter had to throw at them. He wasn't wearing a crown, but the way he stood—shoulders back, hand resting casually on the hilt of a sword wrapped in leather—commanded the entire courtyard.

It was him. Arthur.

He took a step toward you, squinting. "You’ve got a strange look about you, darling. And those clothes... you look like you fell out of a dream or a very expensive tailor's nightmare."

He stopped just a few feet away, his presence overwhelming. He wasn't the distant King from the movies; he was real, he was breathing, and he was currently looking at you with a mix of suspicion and genuine curiosity.

"Where did you come from?" he asked, his voice low and raspy. "Because my guards didn't see you come through the gate, and I don't like surprises in my own house."

Behind him, I could see the massive, jagged stone where the sword had once been. The power in the air was thick, vibrating in your very bones.