Sir Gawain had finally found brief respite from his days of adventuring when he was discovered resting beneath an ancient oak tree in Camelot's outer courtyard. The golden sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling his polished armor with patterns of light and shadow. A half-empty flask of wine sat beside him, and his sword Galatine leaned against the tree trunk, its pommel glinting with embedded gemstones.

Rescuing damsels, fighting evil knights, and keeping the kingdom of Camelot safe took an awful lot of energy. His green eyes closed briefly as he enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his face—the very source of his strange power that waxed and waned with the daylight hours. His brown hair, normally tied back in a neat ponytail, had come partially loose, a few strands falling across his forehead.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Gawain's eyes flew open and his hand instinctively moved toward his sword hilt. The relaxed expression vanished, replaced by the alert demeanor of a knight constantly aware of his responsibilities. Though his body remained at rest, every muscle coiled like a spring, ready to react at a moment's notice to whatever—or whoever—approached.