The forest stretched quiet around him, the echoes of his footsteps soft on the leaf-littered ground. Arthur adjusted the pack on his shoulders and flexed his hands around the sword hilt. The memory of the three people he killed still pressed against his chest, a weight heavier than any he had carried before.
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He moved slowly, careful, as if the earth itself would betray him if he rushed. Hours passed with only the occasional cry of a bird or the whisper of wind through skeletal branches. Each sound sharpened his senses, each shadow set his pulse faster.
Yet her presence lingered in his thoughts, not as a memory of danger, but as a quiet, unsettling gravity. The way she had looked at him— soft, amused, knowing— pressed against the dark weight of the world he had walked through.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought. He had responsibilities, a path, blood on his hands that demanded attention. The beautiful woman was a distraction he could not afford, yet could not deny.
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By midday, the road widened. A small clearing revealed the remnants of a burned-out cart and the scorched earth of a campsite. Smoke still rose faintly from the ashes. Arthur crouched, inspecting the remains.
Two figures approached cautiously from behind a thicket— a man and a woman, eyes wary, hands brushing at concealed weapons. They froze when they saw him.
"I mean no harm," Arthur said evenly, voice carrying but calm. "I'm just passing by."
The man's grip on his dagger loosened, but the tension in his shoulders remained. "A lot of People say that," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Not everyne who walks alone is friendly."
Arthur considered his words. He could show them the sword, intimidate them, even fight— but the blood on his hands was fresh, and he did not need more. Instead, he lowered the blade slightly, posture careful but non-threatening. "Then please, let us keep the peace."
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They studied him for a long moment. The woman's gaze lingered on his armor, dull from travel, on the careful lines of the sword's edge. Something unspoken passed between the man and the woman —a recognition of effort, of endurance, of survival.
Finally, the man nodded. "Then move along. Don't linger."
Arthur inclined his head and stepped past, boots crunching over gravel. The woman's eyes followed him a beat longer, curosity soft but insistent.
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He did not see That beautiful woman (Morgan) again.
The forest swallowed the light as he pushed on, but her presence remained in his mind like a quiet echo. A reminder that life continued beyond the weight of his choices, that not everything carried grief.
Still, he could not forget the dead. Not the three people he killed, not the villagers, not the boy he had saved. Each face pressed into his memory, each a lesson he could not unlearn.
He paused by a stream, kneeling to drink. His reflection wavered on the water—dirt-streaked face, steel-green eyes, hair tangled from the wind. The boy who had left Ector's household was gone. The boy who returned from the villages was heavier, sharper, aware.
"I carry more than I should," he murmured. "And yet, I will on keep moving no matter what."
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The afternoon sun lowered, slanting through the treetops. Arthur noticed movement at the far edge of the clearing. A figure stepped forward, slow, deliberate.
Not Morgan—but her presence seemed to stretch across space, intangible yet palpable.
A messenger? A scout? No, closer observation revealed a young knight-in-training, a boy no older than me would be. He carried a short sword, unpracticed, but with a spark of defiance in his green eyes.
Arthur's pulse sharpened. "Easy," he said aloud, placing a hand near his hilt.
The boy hesitated. "I… I challenge you," he said, voice shaking. "If I can't face a knight, how can I serve my lord?"
Arthur studied him, then lowered the sword fully, though stance remained alert. "I am no knight, yet." he said evenly. "But I will not hold back. Learn from this, not everyone will spare you if you challenge random people of the round."
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The duel was swift. Arthur's movements flowed with years of practice, but he restrained himself, leaving openings that taught, not killed. The boy lunged, stumbled, corrected, learned. Steel rang on steel, the sound ringing across the clearing.
Arthur's strikes were precise, restrained, each one carrying a lesson in weight, distance, patience. The boy fell once, then twice, and each time Arthur offered a hand, steadying him.
Finally, the boy knelt, breath ragged, eyes wide. "I… understand," he said.
Arthur stepped back, watching him rise. "Then remember this moment. Do not seek glory, but clarity. And train until you know your strength."
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Night fell as Arthur made camp near the stream. The boy had left, and silence returned, though heavier now with the awareness of lives touched and lessons imparted. Arthur cleaned the sword, mind wandering back to the first pillar he had seen—the silver-blue hair, the soft gaze, the presence that unsettled yet anchored him.
Morgan's image lingered, not in dream but in memory, pressing against the tension in his chest. He did not yet understand why it mattered, but the thought brought a faint, unsteady warmth.
"I will do better," he whispered to the night. "Not for fate. Not for glory. But for them… and perhaps for her."
The forest seemed to hold its breath, and Arthur allowed himself a slow exhale. The road remained harsh, dark, and unrelenting. Yet he moved forward, ready for the lessons ahead.
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Arthur slept lightly, sword at his side, senses alert even in rest. The shadows moved, the wind whispered, and somewhere far off, the cries of a wolf cut through the night.
Tomorrow, he would continue. Tomorrow, he would learn. And somewhere ahead, he might see her again—not as a danger, not as a command, but as a reminder that even in darkness, there could be weight enough to hold him steady.
A/N:I want to tell or ask a question do you guys want a more grounded and you know novel style writing or more of a shounen style thing .