Trial of Courage
Arthur stepped forward, heart pounding as the edge of his boot touched the mossy threshold—and the sanctuary vanished in an instant. A sudden rush of wind tore through the clearing, sucking the warmth from the air. He gasped as the vibrant colors of the world dissolved into a blinding white void, then reformed with the sickening lurch of a nightmare. He staggered slightly, his eyes widening as he tried to grasp the shift—not just in scenery, but in atmosphere, in energy. A cold dread slithered up his spine. Gone was the sacred peace of the sanctuary. In its place rose the scent of scorched earth, the weight of ash in his throat, and the echo of long-dead screams reverberating through the veil of time. Something ancient had been disturbed. Something within him had awakened.
The vibrant greenery was consumed by a thick, unnatural fog, swallowing the trees, the stream, and even the sky. The air grew heavy with the stench of burning wood, damp earth, and the unmistakable tang of blood. Distant echoes of battle rippled through the gloom—the clash of steel, the cries of the dying, the desperate shouts of men who had once followed him into war. Even the wind carried with it the faint weeping of ghosts long forgotten.
Then the fog parted.
Before him stretched a battlefield drenched in the crimson of war. A broken land, littered with the corpses of fallen knights, their armor shattered, their banners torn and lifeless in the wind. The sky overhead was a swirling tempest of dark clouds, flickering with ghostly lightning that illuminated the ruin before him. Smoke curled from charred trees, the ground was scorched and cracked, and pools of rainwater mirrored the haunted storm above.
Arthur's breath hitched. He knew this place.
It was Camlan.
The final battlefield. The place where his kingdom fell, where his dreams of a united Camelot were swallowed by betrayal and death.
And standing in the midst of the destruction were the faces of those he had loved and lost.
Guinevere, her once warm gaze now distant and full of sorrow. Her dress was tattered, her eyes hollow, a shell of the woman who once shared his hopes.
Lancelot, his noble face twisted with regret, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, his armor smeared with the blood of friends.
Gawain, Bedivere, Percival—the Knights of the Round Table, their spectral forms flickering like dying embers, their eyes filled with memories of glory and grief.
Their eyes bore into him, accusing, questioning—piercing through the armor of his soul with silent judgment. Arthur's breath caught as their stares, once filled with camaraderie, now seared him with condemnation. His throat tightened, and his heart pounded in defiance of their gaze, a storm of guilt and sorrow rising within him.
"Why did you fail us, Arthur?"
The words were not spoken aloud, but they filled the air, pressing down on him like a suffocating weight.
Arthur clenched his fists, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs. No. He would not let guilt break him. He had carried this burden for centuries, the ache of their absence etched into every step. But he had not abandoned them. He had not turned away.
The fog thickened, swirling violently as the figures of his fallen knights began to shift, twisting into grotesque specters. Hollow eyes glowed with cold fire, their armor rusted, their blades raised against him. What had once been noble was now monstrous, warped by sorrow and blame.
They came for him.
A wave of them surged forward—shadows of his past, regrets given form.
Arthur's hand went to Excalibur, and the sacred blade sang as he drew it, its glow casting back the darkness.
The first specter lunged. He met it with a swift arc of his sword, the blade cutting through its form like mist. But as it dissipated, another took its place. And another.
They attacked relentlessly, spectral blades ringing against his own, driving him back step by step. He moved with the reflexes of a seasoned warrior, his muscles remembering the countless battles he had fought. He parried, dodged, struck back, each movement precise and powerful. Yet for every enemy he felled, more rose to take their place.
And their whispers never stopped.
"You abandoned us."
"You let Camelot fall."
"You let us die."
The words pierced deeper than any blade, flaying open emotional scars long buried beneath layers of duty and silence. Each whisper carved its own cruel truth, echoing betrayals and losses that time had failed to dull, forcing Arthur to relive every moment of abandonment and grief as if for the first time. For a moment, doubt clawed at his resolve. Had he failed them? Had all his efforts been in vain?
A spectral sword grazed his shoulder, drawing an icy sting. Another slammed against his shield arm, sending a numbing shock through his bones. He gritted his teeth. No.
These were not his knights.
They were shadows. Echoes of regret meant to break him.
Arthur planted his feet, raised Excalibur high, and roared, "I have not abandoned you!"
The battlefield trembled at his voice, the storm overhead flashing with blinding light. The specters faltered, their forms flickering.
Arthur pressed forward, his strikes faster, surer.
"Your memories guide me." His sword cut through a figure wearing the tattered remains of Gawain's armor. "Your sacrifices will never be forgotten." He drove his blade into the heart of another.
One by one, they fell, dissolving into mist.
With each defeated foe, his doubt weakened, his conviction strengthened. He was not the same man who had fallen at Camlan. He was not bound by the ghosts of his past.
He was Arthur. The Once and Future King.
The last specter lunged at him, its hollow eyes burning with accusation. Arthur met it head-on, driving Excalibur through its chest. The ghost let out a final, hollow scream before disintegrating into the wind.
The battlefield began to change.
The smoke cleared, the stench of death replaced by the scent of fresh grass. The broken land became whole again, the storm fading into a golden dawn. The distant cries of war vanished, replaced by the gentle murmur of the wind.
Arthur stood alone in the center of a vast meadow, his chest rising and falling with exertion, his breath like steam in the cool morning air. The silence that enveloped him was profound, yet not empty—it resonated with the echoes of battle, the cries of specters vanquished, and the fierce roar of his own defiance. His muscles trembled from the strain of the ordeal, and his heart thudded with more than exhaustion; it beat with the cathartic release of confronting centuries of buried pain. Above him, the sky had softened into hues of pale gold and lavender, as if nature itself acknowledged the triumph. The breeze carried a crisp sweetness, mingling the scent of dew-kissed grass with the lingering charge of dissipated magic. In that moment, Arthur stood not just as a victor of a brutal trial, but as a man momentarily freed from burden, reacquainted with clarity, and strengthened by truth. He looked around, taking in the quiet beauty of the landscape. The battle was over.
And he had won.
A shadow moved ahead of him. He turned to find the Cù Sìth standing at the edge of the meadow, its luminous eyes filled with approval.
"You have faced your fears and proven your courage," the great guardian intoned, its voice a low rumble of ancient power. "Now, face the trial of wisdom."
Arthur straightened, sheathing Excalibur. His body ached from the trial, but his heart was steady.
The first test had forced him to confront the full weight of his past—the bitter ghosts of his misjudgments, the faces of comrades lost to time and war, and the silent echoes of promises broken by the tides of fate. Each blow struck in that spectral battlefield had unearthed wounds he thought long scarred over, yet he stood victorious, forged stronger in the fire of remembrance. But he had emerged, not unscathed, but unbroken.
And he was ready for whatever came next.
With renewed resolve, he stepped forward once more.
The next trial awaited.