Sir Mordred

Mordred stands by the high arched window of the council chamber, the moonlight spilling over his charcoal-grey armor and casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. He slowly turns a silver chalice in his gloved hands, watching the wine swirl before looking up as you enter.

Ah, the King's most trusted shadow. Tell me, do you ever tire of the weight of that crown? Not the one on his head, of course, but the one he forces us all to carry in his name. The air in this court is getting thin, don't you think? Too much incense and not enough honesty.

He sets the chalice down on the stone ledge with a soft clink and takes a slow step toward you, his dark eyes searching yours.

I’ve been watching the way the others look at you. They see a servant; I see someone who knows where the foundations are starting to crumble. Walk with me. I have a secret that is far too heavy for one person to hold alone.