You wake up to the sound of clanking metal and hushed voices, and before you can fully grasp your surroundings, you realize two things: (1) you are wearing armor, and (2) your bed has been replaced by a cold, hard bench. Someone shoves a goblet into your hand before you can even protest.

“Drink up, Sir… uh… what’s your title again?” A bearded knight, clearly trying to size you up, leans uncomfortably close. His helmet wobbles on his head like it’s one size too big. You stammer, looking for an exit strategy, but before you can blurt out your confusion, a booming voice fills the hall.

“Loyal Knights of the Round Table!” It’s King Arthur himself, standing at the head of the iconic circular table you’ve somehow been recruited to. He looks every bit the regal king: golden crown, magnificent cape, and an aura that screams trust me, I lead armies.

Your first instinct is to duck under the table and pretend you’re an overly ambitious squire who got in over their head. But before you can execute this flawless plan, Arthur’s gaze locks on you.

“And who might this be?” he asks, his voice warm but curious. “A new knight, no doubt. Sir…”

Your brain freezes. You’ve barely had time to process the situation, let alone come up with a medieval pseudonym. So, naturally, you say the first thing that pops into your head.

“Sir Sandwich.”

There’s a beat of silence. Somewhere in the distance, a lute player coughs.

“Sir Sandwich?” Arthur repeats, eyebrow arching. The other knights exchange skeptical glances, but Arthur, being the magnanimous leader that he is, gives you a nod. “Unusual name, but I trust you are as noble and brave as your title suggests.”

The knights mutter approvingly, and you find yourself swept into the fold, seated between Sir Gawain and Sir Bedivere. Your armor clinks awkwardly every time you shift, and you can’t help but notice that Sir Lancelot is side-eyeing you like he already knows you don’t belong here.

“So,” Gawain says, nudging you with an elbow. “What’s your specialty, Sir Sandwich? Swordplay? Jousting? Questing for mystical artifacts?”

“Uh…” You scramble for a response, trying to balance your modern-day skill set with the expectations of a medieval knight. “Problem-solving? Critical thinking?”

Sir Bedivere snorts. “Critical thinking? What’s that? Some kind of new combat style?”

Lancelot smirks. “Sounds like something Merlin would say.”

“Exactly!” you blurt, latching onto the idea. “Merlin trained me. I, uh… solve puzzles. Mystical riddles. And, uh, inventory management.”

Arthur beams. “A knight of intellect and strategy! Just what we need. Camelot is facing unprecedented challenges.”

You nod solemnly, despite having zero idea what you’ve just signed up for. “Unprecedented challenges. Right. That’s my specialty.”

The First Quest

Your inaugural mission arrives faster than you’d hoped. After a brief breakfast of bread and questionable meat, Arthur announces the day’s quest: retrieving the Holy Tupperware.

“It is said to seal leftovers so perfectly, not even time itself can spoil them,” Arthur explains gravely. “Legend says it’s hidden in the Enchanted Forest, guarded by a fearsome dragon.”

“Oh, good,” you mutter. “Dragons. Just what I was hoping for.”

“You’ll lead the charge, Sir Sandwich,” Arthur says, clapping you on the shoulder. “Your problem-solving skills will surely guide us to victory.”

Before you can object, a squire slaps a sword into your hand and you’re marching off with a group of heavily armed knights who are far too enthusiastic about battling mythical creatures.

The Enchanted Forest is as spooky as it sounds—trees twist like they’ve been through years of therapy, and the air smells faintly of burnt marshmallows. The dragon, when you finally encounter it, is every bit as terrifying as advertised. It’s massive, scales glittering like molten gold, and it breathes fire so hot it singes your eyebrows from twenty feet away.

The knights charge in, swords raised, yelling battle cries. You, however, hang back, heart pounding as you try to figure out how the heck to solve this problem without getting roasted.

And then it hits you: dragons love riddles, right? Or is that trolls? Either way, it’s your best shot.

“Wait!” you yell, holding up a hand. Miraculously, the dragon pauses mid-roar, tilting its head in curiosity. The knights freeze, looking at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“Great dragon!” you shout. “I challenge you to a battle of wits!”

The dragon blinks, then lowers its head until it’s eye level with you. “A battle of wits, you say?” it rumbles, voice like a landslide. “Very well, little knight. What is your riddle?”

Crap. You didn’t think this far ahead. Your mind races, and you finally blurt out the first thing you can think of:

“What has a head, a tail, is brown, and has no legs?”

The dragon’s eyes narrow. “A coin,” it says smugly.

“Right,” you say, trying to stay cool. “But what kind of coin?”

The dragon hesitates. “Uh…”

“Exactly!” you say triumphantly, banking on the fact that dragons, for all their wisdom, probably don’t know about modern currency. “You’ve been outsmarted!”

The dragon huffs, clearly frustrated but bound by the unspoken rules of medieval riddling. It slinks away, muttering about unfair questions, and you retrieve the Holy Tupperware with surprisingly little fanfare.

When you return to Camelot, the knights are already singing songs of your “cunning victory.” Arthur declares you a hero, and someone even carves your likeness onto a tapestry.

You decide you could get used to this whole knight thing. Especially if it means avoiding actual combat.

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