The throne room was gargantuan. Towering columns rose upward, casting cones of shadow that covered much of the hall, intimidating those gathered, who huddled among wooden benches and dark arches. The old knight, however, seemed unbothered. He was more concerned with keeping his composure, trying to ignore the pain in the knee pressed against the hard stone.

  Upon the throne sat the king, proud and arrogant, strengthened by birthright and youth.

  He held an unrolled parchment so long it touched the floor.

  "Rise... you have already proven your worth. There is no need to bow to me."

  The king began, and silence fell across the hall.

  "You have served my grandfather, my father, and me without ever faltering. I can say you have been as steadfast as the ancient columns of this hall.

  I remember you already old when I was still chasing after my dear mother's skirts," said the king, gesturing toward the knight.

  We have something in common, thought the old man, memories returning of better times when the old queen was still beautiful and insatiable.

  "You defended the kingdom during the Serbian invasion," the king continued.

  Since your father couldn't even manage his own cock, let alone a kingdom, the old knight reflected with a faint grimace.

  "You led the armies during Venceslaus's Crusade and the siege of Jerusalem alongside Sigismund the Red."

  Not by my choice... the two of them were too busy playing with their swords in the tent... Luckily, syphilis took them both and saved the rest of us, he thought, scratching the pommel of his sword with a fingernail.

  "The bards still sing in taverns of your desperate resistance during the siege of Kyiv," the young king went on.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Because your stingy grandfather sent us to war in breeches and hayforks, the knight remembered, restraining the urge to spit on the floor.

  "And how you conquered the castles of Wallachia during the Ottoman advance."

  Tough people, real warriors — just not used to the cold. If not for the damned climate of those godforsaken lands, we'd all have died there, he reflected, smoothing his tunic and shifting weight onto the knee that hurt less.

  "Now..." the king paused, looking at the aged warrior.

  "Your order no longer exists, and that crusader's tunic is old and useless."

  The old man looked down at the torn, faded cloth, poorly patched, the cross upon it more pitiful than the martyr meant to hang upon it.

  "Fair enough," he muttered, suppressing a smile.

  "And your knightly vows are released by my will, as an act of benevolence and magnanimity," the king continued, rising proudly, chest forward, shoulder angled like a statue.

  "I have also granted you a duchy, giving you the honor of becoming Duke of Tabor, pride and jewel of our kingdom."

  He looked slowly around the hall before sinking tiredly back onto the throne.

  "And yet you refuse all this, striking away a kindly offered hand... why?" he concluded, his voice masterfully wounded.

  "My king," began the old warrior, his voice heavy with weariness and melancholy — or perhaps boredom.

  "I am honored. I probably do not deserve your generosity.

  I have served your noble family with pride, bound by my knightly oath. I tried to uphold the banner of your house, satisfying the needs of my lords..." For a brief moment he glanced at the throne where the new queen now sat, though once a far more fascinating woman had occupied it.

  "I fought invaders, pagans, peasants, and Muslims for my bond to God and to this cross," he said, raising his voice and tapping the ragged cross with a finger.

  "I climbed walls, defended and shattered gates, and I cannot count how many dead I have left behind me..."

  "But it was not the Church that kept me alive during long nights of siege.

  It was not God who helped me when we charged enemies across open fields.

  It was not my order that guarded my back from Ottoman sabers...

  And now... now that I am no longer bound by honor to God or Church, I can finally stand beside my companions and have the chance to be with them — not out of duty, but..."

  he hesitated,

  "...by choice."

  He finished, clasping his knotted, scarred hands, noticing they had begun to tremble.

  "What do you want from me?" whispered the man on the throne, a little less king and a little more boy gazing with admiration at a knight in shining armor.

  "New swords, my lord. And many blankets. Where I'm going, it's still very cold."

  The old man answered absently. He was no longer truly there — and now he looked younger than when he had entered.