'Arthur Vs. Lancelot'

The Dead Forest loomed like a nightmare, its skeletal trees stretching twisted limbs toward the starless sky. Beneath the cold moonlight, their shadows warped across the bloodstained earth. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, the stench of rot, and the earthy scent of damp soil. Even the faint rustle of leaves seemed muted by the grim atmosphere.

Arthur stood opposite Lancelot, his chest heaving with uneven breaths. Sweat slicked his pale face, and the sluggishly bleeding stab wounds Florian had inflicted earlier painted dark streaks down his clothes. His legs trembled faintly beneath him, though he fought to remain steady.

Lancelot tilted his head, a smirk curling his lips as he rolled his shoulders, muscles taut and ready. His gleaming sword reflected the eerie light. "So, let me get this straight..." he drawled, gesturing lazily between Arthur and the lifeless body of the rogue leader sprawled nearby.