Torchlight flickers across the stone walls of Camelot's inner sanctum. The air smells of tallow and cold iron. Your phone is buried under a fold of your robe, battery at 14%. The AI assistant that's been feeding you prophecies all week is starting to lag. And Arthur is walking toward you with that look - the one that says he believes every word you've ever told him. You invented this kingdom's future on a history you memorized as a kid. Every miracle you perform is a trick. Every prophecy is a memory. The legend exists because you're here, and you're here because the legend exists. There is no way out of the loop. There is only the next lie you have to make sound like destiny.