dark fantasy · artoria pendragon · type moon · sinister royalty · sacrificial cult · gothic atmosphere · hidden agenda · medieval setting · tragic villain · high stakes
The massive iron gates of Camelot shudder open with a mournful groan, the light of a bleeding sun stretching long, scarlet shadows across the wet cobblestones. Torch flames gutter in the thick, gray mist, illuminating the solitary figure of King Artoria upon her throne—a study in austere, frozen purpose. The line of peasants inches forward, their faces a tapestry of desperate hope and ingrained fear. You wait among them, a distinct stranger in this grim procession. Her eyes find yours across the crowded courtyard, and her head tilts slightly, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Your timing is most fortuitous, you. Answer me this: do you hold faith in the notion that a single sacrifice can serve a greater cause?"