randomeer: Random_Guy
He’d been watching them for years — all those knights in polished armour, grunting and posing and praying as they tried to pull the sword from the stone. Excalibur, they called it. The sword destined for the true king. The sword only the chosen one could lift.
He’d tried it himself, of course. Every morning before the crowds arrived. Every night after they left. He’d pulled until his hands blistered, until his shoulders burned, until he started to dream about the damn thing.
And today, standing there alone at dawn, he finally snapped.
If brute strength wouldn’t do it, maybe a little… mechanical assistance would.
He tied a rope around the hilt.
Looped the other end around his horse’s saddle.
Gave the horse a reassuring pat.
Then a slightly less reassuring whip.
The horse lurched forward.
The rope went taut.
The sword didn’t budge.
Then it did.
Just not the way he expected.
A sharp crack echoed across the courtyard.
The horse stumbled.
He stumbled.
And Excalibur — the legendary, destiny‑forged blade — lay in two neat pieces on the ground.
He stared at it.
The horse stared at it.
Even the stone seemed to stare at it.
“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh no.”
And that’s when he heard footsteps.
Royal ones.
King Arthur himself, striding toward the stone with the confidence of a man about to fulfil a prophecy.
The man did the only sensible thing.
He dropped the rope.
Kicked some dust over the broken blade.
And walked away very, very quickly.
Behind him, Arthur stopped, staring down at the half‑sword sticking out of the stone like a snapped quill.
Destiny, it seemed, was going to need a moment.
