Chapter 5 - The King’s Council

In the war room, Arthur stood before a massive parchment map of Albion, his fingers tracing the rugged terrain leading to Frosthold. The glow of Caliburn, resting securely against the wall rack, cast a warm amber light across the room. Sir Gawain and Lady Isolde stood beside him, their expressions grave.
"Sire, my scouts report that Lord Malaphar has fortified his position," Gawain said, crossing his arms over his heavy chestplate. "He has hired mercenaries from the eastern wastes—men who know no honor, only coin. If you march north with a small escort, it will be viewed as an invitation to slaughter."
"It is an invitation to dialogue," Arthur corrected calmly, not looking up from the map. "Malaphar thinks he can bully the crown because he controls the northern trade routes. If I cower behind these stone walls, the other lords will take it as a sign of weakness. A king must lead from the front."
"You are not just a commander anymore, Arthur," Isolde said gently, her voice carrying the weight of decades at court. "You are the symbol of the entire kingdom. If you fall, Albion falls with you. Let me go as your emissary. Malaphar may listen to reason if he believes he is negotiating with the old guard."
Arthur straightened up, turning to face them. The youthful softness in his features was tempered by an unyielding resolve that had grown stronger with every passing hour since he drew the sword. "No, Isolde. Malaphar wants to break the crown. He wants a king he can manipulate or destroy. Only Caliburn’s master can command the allegiance of the northern clans. We ride at dawn."
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Gawain sighed, a sound half of frustration and half of deep admiration. "Then you will have every sword of the royal guard at your back, Sire. If Malaphar wants a fight, he will have to cut through me first."
"Prepare the men," Arthur ordered. "And see that the relief wagons for the northern villages are loaded. We bring bread as well as justice."