Rickard sat stiffly in one of the many battered booths lining the perimeter of The Black Bull Tavern. The air was thick with the scent of ale and damp wood, mingling with the faint tang of spilled wine that never quite left the floor. The usual hum of raucous laughter and bawdy songs absent, the tavern lay eerily quiet, its empty chairs and vacant hearth casting long, unsettling shadows in the dim morning light.

  Sitting next to him loomed Sir Owen Flagg, The Northern Knight. His broad shoulders filled the space, his presence a wall of flesh and steel that left little room to breathe. A tankard of ale sat gripped in one of his massive, calloused hands, the other resting idly on the table, its fingers twitching like a coiled viper ready to strike. Rickard dared a glance at the man’s face – a map of scars twisting his features into something fearsome and tragic. Though Sir Owen wore an honest, almost fatherly smile, the brutal marks told a story of violence that made it hard for Rickard to meet his gaze for long.

  Opposite them, The Hawk Knight, Sir Orchis Vortigon, reclined in the shadows. The flickering light caught the sharp lines of his face, but his familiar brown eyes stood out, glittering like polished stone as they flicked over Rickard’s face with unnerving precision. Every glance was a cleaver, dissecting him bit by bit, as though Sir Orchis could read the very blood in his veins.

  Prince Jacques sat draped in an air of nonchalance. He leaned back against the cracked leather of the booth, sipping his wine with an elegance that felt out of place in such a grim setting. His snow-white hair gleamed in the lantern’s glow, framing his pale skin in an ethereal light that made him seem almost otherworldly, a ghost amongst men. His gaze wandered lazily over the room, as though he were at some highborn’s garden party instead of an empty tavern reeking of old drink and struggle.

  Rickard’s throat tightened as he lifted his own mug, its rim chipped and uneven. The bitter brew burned on the way down, but it did little to soothe the unease clawing at his chest. The last time he was here, he had been with friends, their laughter spilling out over half-empty mugs as they shared crude jokes and stories of the day. Now, those friends were gone, and in their place sat the new crown prince, a knight who made monsters look tame, and another whose face seemed carved by the battles he’d survived.

  The tavern door creaked slightly in the breeze. Even the landlord had disappeared, off to fetch new supplies for the evening crowd. It was just the four of them now, alone in the suffocating silence. Rickard shifted in his seat, feeling the worn leather stick to the back of his tunic, and dared a glance at Prince Jacques.

  'So… why am I here?' He asked, his voice catching despite his attempt to sound steady.

  'We are celebrating, dear boy,' Prince Jacques declared, lifting his glass with the effortless poise of someone who had been born to command attention. The ruby-red wine caught the dim light of the tavern, glinting like blood in a glass. 'To the new captain.'

  'To the new captain,' Sir Orchis echoed, his voice smooth and velvety, a sharp contrast to the steely clink of their glasses meeting. The knight’s eyes, dark and unreadable, never left Rickard as he took a slow sip, his lips curling faintly around the rim of his goblet.

  Rickard blinked, unsure if he had misheard. 'The… new captain?' He blinked again, the silence settling around him as the prince’s grin widened. 'I thought Sir Mandon Jubilee was the new captain.'

  'So did he.' The prince leaned forward, his hair falling around his face like the edge of a pale flame. His tone remained light, almost cheerful, as if they were discussing the latest fashions in court rather than matters of state. 'We’ve made some lovely improvements to the royal guard. One of them being the immediate dismissal of anyone who might want me dead.'

  Rickard’s stomach dropped, his pulse quickening.

  'Turns out three of them didn’t like me very much. Well,' Prince Jacques waved a hand airily, 'I soon disposed of them.'

  Disposed. The word hung in the air like a noose, its implications twisting in Rickard’s gut.

  'And since the crown is yet to find a suitable replacement for Sir Theon, this means four spots in the royal guard are now open.' The prince smiled, his teeth flashing white. 'We’re giving you an opportunity to train, go through trials, just as the men who sit here before you did. And if you succeed, you’ll find yourself wearing the crimson cloak and rise as a knight of the Galian royal guard. How does that sound?'

  Rickard stared at him. His body frozen, his mind rebelled against the words that had just been spoken. The crimson cloak? Me? The very idea felt so preposterous it bordered on absurdity. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be a joke, some twisted jest conjured by a man with an equally twisted sense of humour.

  He managed a nervous chuckle, though the sound came out strangled. 'You’re having me on.'

  The prince’s expression darkened, his easy demeanour hardening into stone. 'I am not,' he said. His pale blue eyes burned with an intensity that made Rickard’s skin prickle. 'Work hard and train well, and you’ll see yourself rewarded in the end.' He turned his head toward Sir Owen. 'Isn’t that right, Owen?'

  Sir Owen rumbled a low confirmation. 'If the boy listens, yes.'

  The weight of The Northern Knight’s words only added to the tension in the room. Rickard glanced at him, hoping to find some trace of humour or kindness in the man’s scarred face, but there was none. Only grave certainty.

  'See?' Prince Jacques said. 'No trick.'

  Rickard’s heart pounded like a drum in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. His hands were damp with sweat, and he resisted the urge to pinch himself, to shatter this utterly surreal moment. He felt as though he were caught in a storm, the room spinning around him as his mind struggled to grasp the enormity of what was being offered.

  A knight. A knight of the royal guard.

  It was impossible. Men like him didn’t rise to such heights. Sir Theon’s journey from commoner to captain was the stuff of legend, a tale told to inspire but never to replicate. It was a one-in-a-million chance. Rickard was just an orphan rat, blending into the background, destined for nothing.

  And yet here I sit.

  Rickard narrowed his eyes at the prince, suspicion swirling in his chest. 'Why me?' he asked. 'There are probably a thousand kids out there who want what I want. Why am I so special?'

  The prince didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly tapping the rim of his goblet. His eyes, sharp and calculating, searched Rickard’s face as though weighing how much truth to reveal. Finally, he spoke, his tone measured yet firm. 'Because your father saved my life.'

  Rickard blinked, his breath hitching in his throat. The words struck him like a slap, leaving a stunned silence in their wake. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table as though to steady himself. 'You… you knew my dad?'

  Prince Jacques nodded solemnly, but it was Sir Owen who answered, his droning northern voice tinged with something that sounded almost like reverence. 'We all did. He was a brave man, a loyal man.'

  My father. The man Rickard had only ever known in fragmented dreams and stories whispered by his mother. A figure shrouded in mystery and absence, whose face he had conjured countless times in his mind. He pictured him tall and broad-shouldered, like Sir Owen but unmarred by the scars. He would have a smooth, kind face with a glistening smile that could brighten the darkest day.

  In his dreams, his father’s voice was deep yet melodic, commanding respect but offering comfort in equal measure. It was a voice Rickard imagined teaching him, guiding him, scolding him when necessary but always with love. And now, to hear these men speak of him as though he had been real, as though he had been more than just a shadow in Rickard’s imagination—it was almost too much to process.

  'Was he a knight or something?' Rickard asked, his voice a mix of awe and curiosity.

  'No,' the prince replied. 'But he was a warrior. One of the finest I’ve ever met. If it weren’t for his courage, I’d be without a head right now. So I owe him.'

  Rickard felt his throat tighten, his chest aching with the weight of what he had just learned. His father—a hero. A man who had not only been brave but had saved the life of a prince. He wondered if he’d met the King, or Prince Rickard, or even Sir Theon Balogun himself. The thought filled him with both pride and sorrow, an aching longing for someone he could never truly know.

  Prince Jacques’ voice faltered slightly, and when Rickard looked up, he saw a glimmer of something unexpected in the prince’s eyes. Sadness. The prince sniffed once, quickly, as if trying to conceal the crack in his composure, but it was there—a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability.

  Whether it was guilt, or perhaps a secret that refused to surface, Rickard couldn’t tell, but it left him unsettled, the questions piling up in his mind like stones in a river.

  'But,' Sir Orchis Vortigon interjected, his voice slicing through the fragile moment, 'if the whispers about you are to be believed, I think he’d be bitterly disappointed in the choices you’ve made.'

  Rickard frowned as a hot wave of anger washed over him. 'What?'

  'Oh yes,' Sir Orchis continued, his tone dripping with disdain. 'You were in education, best in your class, weren’t you? And now look at you. Crawling through the gutter like a rat, wallowing in whatever hole this is you’ve chosen to fall into.'

  The words hit Rickard like a blow to the chest. He shook his head, but the image of his father—his imaginary, idealised father—flared to life in his mind. He could almost see him standing there, arms crossed, scowling in disappointment. Judging him.

  He doesn’t understand. He’s not even real!

  'You can’t talk to me like that,' Rickard snapped. 'This place—this city—fucks you up!'

  'Ah, yes,' Sir Orchis sneered, leaning back in his chair with a derisive chuckle. 'Always someone else’s fault, isn’t it? The city, the system, the stars—anyone but yourself.'

  Rickard’s fists clenched under the table, his knuckles turning bone-white. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he bit back the urge to scream. He pictured every long, gruelling day he had endured since his mother died—begging for scraps, stealing when he had no other choice, lying just to survive. The memory of each humiliation, each painful compromise, burned like a brand on his soul.

  'Do you think I had much of a choice?' Rickard growled through gritted teeth. 'Do you think I wanted this? I’ve had to beg, steal, lie—do whatever it took just to survive. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you?'

  He leaned forward, his fury bubbling. 'Because you’re just some son of a high lord who’s never had to lift a finger in your damn life!'

  For a moment, Sir Orchis said nothing. His sharp brown eyes, cold and unfeeling, locked onto Rickard like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, he grinned. Slowly. Calculatingly. The kind of smile that sent a chill crawling up Rickard’s spine.

  'You wound me,' Sir Orchis murmured, the mockery in his tone unmistakable. 'But I think you’re forgetting who you’re speaking to.' His grin vanished in an instant, replaced by a look so sharp it could have drawn blood. ‘And if we are to be brothers-in-arms, then I suggest you learn to speak to me more softly.'

  The Hawk Knight’s stare pinned Rickard to his seat, those piercing brown eyes cutting through his anger and peeling away his defences. Rickard couldn’t stop his resolve from faltering, his shoulders sagging as the weight of Sir Orchis’ presence bore down on him.

  In silence, he sat small. Exposed. And completely at The Hawk Knight’s mercy.

  'Sir Orchis, take it easy on the lad,' Sir Owen commanded, his deep voice carrying a weight that smashed through the simmering tension. His massive body shifted toward Rickard, and he placed a hand on his shoulder—a bear’s paw in truth. Rickard flinched at first, but the touch grounded him, the warmth radiating from Sir Owen’s palm a stark contrast to the icy gaze Sir Orchis cast from across the table.

  'Look,' Sir Owen said, 'we all want to help. But we can’t help unless you help yourself.' He leaned forward, his scarred face close enough for Rickard to see the humanity behind those harsh, weathered lines. 'If you want, we’ll walk out that door right now, and you can go back to your life as it is. No shame in it. But if you come with us—if you decide to take this chance—I’ll make you as good a knight as any in the kingdom. On your father’s honour, you have my word.'

  The words hung in the air like the toll of a bell, solemn and full of promise. Rickard’s chest tightened, his breath hitching as his gaze darted between Sir Owen and Sir Orchis.

  Despite the warmth of Sir Owen’s reassurance, the weight of Sir Orchis’ shadow lingered in the corner. His presence made Rickard’s skin crawl, a constant reminder that failure was not an option—not with those piercing brown eyes watching his every move, dissecting him like a bug under glass.

  Is this really happening?

  Pride and fear churned together in his gut, threatening to consume him. His father was a hero, a man who had once saved the life of the prince himself. But that man was a ghost, a figure of legend Rickard had never truly known.

  'You have your father’s spirit, lad,' Sir Owen said, his voice full of conviction. 'I see it in you. I know you can do this.'

  Something stirred deep within him, a spark of determination that burned away the haze of doubt clouding his mind. His back straightened as if pulled by an invisible thread, his chest rising with newfound resolve.

  His eyes flicked back to Sir Orchis, still lurking in the shadows like some twisted spectre of judgment. The Hawk Knight’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic grin, as though he could see right through Rickard’s moment of courage.

  Sir Theon wouldn’t run from a shadow, Rickard thought, the memory of his childhood hero surging to the forefront of his mind. Sir Theon wouldn’t run from anything.

  The doors to the tavern groaned as they swung open, the sound cutting through the silence like a warning bell. Three looming figures trudged into the room, their swords glinting at their sides, their shoulders broad and hunched with purpose. Rickard froze mid-breath, his blood turning cold as he remembered the night he’d killed the fourth member of their group.

  The memory slammed into him: the smell of sweat and blood, the guttural shout as his blade found its mark, and the sickening thud as the body hit the ground. It had been chaos, a blur of survival and regret, but there was no mistaking the face of the biggest man now stomping toward him—the same man who had laid him out cold with a single punch to the face.

  Beady eyes fixed on Rickard like a sentinel watching for intruders. 'What the fuck is that boy doing here?' the man snarled, his voice a low growl that rumbled through the room. 'Are you taking the piss?'

  Their boots hit the floor like drumbeats, each step heavy as they advanced. Tables and chairs groaned in protest as they shoved them aside, the furniture skittering across the floor like discarded toys. The flickering light of the tavern’s hearth stretched their shadows across the walls, grotesque and monstrous. The men were like walking storms, their presence filling the room.

  Rickard’s breath hitched as his gaze darted between them, his stomach churning.

  They’ve come for me.

  Bushy brown beards bristled as the men grinned, their yellowed teeth gleaming in the dim light. Their eyes, hard and unblinking, seemed to bore into Rickard, peeling back every layer of bravado he tried to muster.

  'You’re in need of a beating again, I think, boy,' rumbled the tallest of the lot, his voice as rough as gravel. He unsheathed his blade, the steel catching the firelight and sending a sliver of light dancing across the walls. 'Perhaps that’ll knock some sense into ya.'

  Rickard’s heart hammered in his chest, each beat a deafening drum in his ears. His hands curled into fists beneath the table, his nails biting into his palms. Every instinct screamed at him to grab a weapon, to defend himself, but the memory of that punch—the force of it, the darkness that followed—paralysed him.

  I’m doomed.

  'Look, gentlemen...'

  Rickard blinked, his gaze snapping to Prince Jacques, who was swirling his wine with a glistening smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His snowy hair seemed to catch the firelight, giving him an otherworldly glow.

  'We are celebrating a wonderful occasion,' the prince continued, his voice light, as though he were addressing courtiers rather than brutes with swords. 'And I would greatly appreciate it if you left us in peace so we could finish our drinks.'

  'Fuck off, cunt,' one of the shorter men spat, his voice sharp and dripping with venom.

  Sir Owen shifted his massive frame slightly, his gaze hardening. 'Careful, Sir,' he said, his deep voice carrying an unspoken warning as he gestured towards Prince Jacques. 'This is the Regent King.'

  The words hung in the air like a blade poised to strike, but the shorter man didn’t flinch. His lip curled in a sneer, and he jabbed a finger in Sir Owen’s direction. 'And you’re in the way of my quarry, you northern twat. Now piss off!'

  Prince Jacques’ expression remained serene, but there was a flicker of amusement—or perhaps annoyance—behind his icy blue eyes. He glanced at Sir Owen, their silent exchange carrying a weight of understanding. With the slightest nod from the prince, Sir Owen began to rise.

  His shadow engulfed the three intruders, his scarred face set like stone. The men instinctively stiffened, their bravado faltering for a heartbeat as Sir Owen’s sheer size pressed down on them.

  Without a word, Sir Owen began to move, his steps slow and deliberate. The trio parted just enough to let him pass, their bravado replaced by a flicker of caution. But as soon as the knight stepped towards the door, their attention snapped back to Rickard like wolves circling wounded prey.

  'Now, come 'ere, you little murderer!' the biggest one snarled.

  Rickard barely had time to flinch before the man lunged, his massive arms reaching out like a bear swiping at its target. Iron fingers clamped around Rickard’s collar, hoisting him from his seat with terrifying ease. His boots left the ground, and for a moment, he felt weightless, helpless, as though the ground itself had abandoned him.

  The man’s fiery eyes bored into Rickard’s, alive with rage and malice. His breath reeked of stale ale and rotten teeth, the stench making Rickard’s stomach churn. 'Think you can kill one of us and just walk free?' the man growled, shaking him like a ragdoll.

  Rickard’s heart pounded in his chest, the thundering beats deafening in his ears. His hands clawed at the man’s grip, but it was useless. His strength was too overwhelming, his fingers like steel clamps.

  This is it, Rickard thought, panic surging through him. I can’t fight him. I can’t win.

  He glanced desperately at the prince, at Sir Orchis, at anyone who might intervene. But the prince merely sipped his wine, his expression as calm as ever, as if this were just another boring council meeting. Sir Orchis, meanwhile, leaned back in his seat, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, his dark eyes glinting with intrigue. Neither of them moved to help.

  'Fight back, boy!' the big man roared, shaking him harder. 'Aren’t you a killer? Let’s see what you’ve got!'

  Rickard’s chest tightened, shame and fury warring within him. If he were any sort of knight—any sort of man Prince Jacques wanted him to be—he’d be fighting back. But his arms felt like lead, his strength sapped by the man’s sheer dominance and the crushing weight of his own fear.

  He could barely think, barely breathe. He was powerless, small, the shadow of his imaginary father looming large in his mind. You’re not worthy, the shadow whispered. You’ll never be worthy.

  Then, a quiet sound rippled through the chaos like a pebble in the sea: click.

  Rickard frowned. The big man beside him mirrored his expression, only with far more menace, his scarred knuckles tightening around Rickard’s collar. Together, their gazes swung toward the tavern doors, the muted hum of conversation in the room faltering to a chilling silence. All eyes followed the measured movements of Sir Owen as his gloved fingers flicked the locks on each door. One. Click. Two. Click. Three. Click. The metallic snicks seemed louder than they should, ricocheting in the quiet space.

  No escape.

  'You know what,' Sir Owen said, his voice low and steady. 'I’m going to teach you a lesson my mother taught me. Manners cost nothing.'

  Sir Owen drew his sword, the hiss of steel escaping its scabbard cutting through the tension like an axe through flesh. It was not just a weapon; it was an extension of him, gleaming silver in the dim, flickering light of the tavern’s lanterns.

  The big man’s grip slackened, and Rickard fell to the floor with a breathless gasp, the rush of blood and panic roaring in his ears. The wooden boards bit into his palms as he scrambled back, his eyes wide, watching the men who had moments before seemed so intimidating now take up arms against this lone knight. The big man’s companions joined him, drawing their swords with grim determination. The scrape of steel on steel echoed as they fanned out in a loose, defensive arc.

  The Northern Knight strode forward with an unsettling calmness, his black armour catching the flicker of the firelight, every plate polished to a deadly gleam. The crimson cloak draped across his shoulders flowed like a river of blood, every step, every movement purposeful. He looked like death incarnate.

  But it’s three against one?

  Surely even a royal guard couldn’t manage those odds. Rickard swallowed hard, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. It was too much. For anyone. Even for the great Sir Theon Balogun, perhaps. Certainly for the likes of Rickard, a skinny, scared boy who could barely lift a sword.

  Sir Owen’s voice sliced through the charged silence, cold and sharp enough to cut. 'Who wants to be taught first?’

  The three men exchanged wary glances, their earlier bravado slipping like water through their fingers. For all their bluster, they hesitated, their knuckles white around their hilts.

  The big man stepped forward first, his sword raised and jaw set. Sir Owen’s gaze locked onto him, unblinking, and in that moment, Rickard saw something terrifying in the knight’s fiery maple eyes. Not rage. Not fear. Something worse.

  Certainty.

  The violence erupted in an instant—a blur of flashing steel, sharp grunts, and the sickening ring of metal on metal. The world slowed, every detail searing itself into Rickard’s memory.

  The three men struck in unison, their weapons carving through the air. But Sir Owen was faster. Far faster than Rickard thought possible for a man clad in armour. The first attack came down in a brutal overhead arc—Sir Owen twisted, the blade missing him by inches. The second came from his left, a reckless thrust—he deflected it with a flick of his wrist, his sword ringing like a bell. The third man lunged, but Sir Owen slipped past and pivoted with inspiring ease.

  Rickard’s excitement warred with his fear, a strange, giddy energy coursing through him. This—this was mastery. He had heard the songs, the whispered stories of knights who could take on ten men at once, who could carve through battlefields like gods of war. But seeing it unfold before his eyes? It was something else entirely.

  The three brutes fought like drunken brawlers, swinging wildly, their strikes fuelled by rage rather than skill. Their swords clashed against his with force, but no precision, no strategy. It was as though they had never been tested in a real fight before, their techniques crude, their coordination nonexistent.

  The Northern Knight made them look like fools. Worse than fools. Like children swinging sticks in the air, hoping one might land by sheer luck.

  Sir Owen bundled one man over with a brutal shove, sending him sprawling onto his back. The fool barely had time to gasp before the blade struck. A swift, calculated thrust drove cold steel through the man’s throat. Blood erupted in a crimson volcano, spraying across the tavern floor, splattering chairs and tables, and streaking Sir Owen’s armour in dark rivulets. The scent of iron thickened the air, mingling with the stale stench of spilled ale.

  Sir Owen’s sword arced through the dimly lit room, a flash of merciless steel. It struck with the finality of an executioner’s axe, severing the second man’s head in a single, clean stroke. A sickening thud echoed as the head hit the ground, rolling like a dropped melon, its glassy eyes still frozen in shock.

  The third man staggered back, horror distorting his face as he fumbled for some desperate defence. Too slow. Too late. Sir Owen pivoted, his crimson cloak billowing behind him. The final attacker barely managed a breath before sword met flesh. A wet crunch, a gurgled scream, and then silence. The man collapsed, crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut, his lifeblood seeping into the cracks of the wooden floor.

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

  For a moment, the only movement in the tavern was the sluggish pooling of blood creeping toward Rickard’s boots.

  Sir Owen stood amid the carnage, his breath ragged, his massive chest rising and falling beneath his dented breastplate. His grip on his sword loosened slightly, though his fingers remained curled around the hilt as if he expected another fight to come. The weight of his years must have pressed on him in that instant, a flicker of fatigue showing through the sheer force of his presence.

  Across the booth, Prince Jacques remained seated, his expression unreadable, his goblet still cradled in one hand. He did not flinch, did not react. He simply watched, as if the slaughter before him were no more troubling than spilled wine.

  'My apologies, Your Grace,' Sir Owen managed through the pants, his tone as courteous as if he had merely knocked over a goblet. 'I’ve made a mess.'

  Prince Jacques regarded the carnage before him with a detached amusement, swirling the deep red wine in his goblet as if contemplating its vintage rather than the blood soaking the tavern floor. The bodies lay sprawled where they had fallen, their cooling flesh already drawing the interest of flies. The Prince took a sip, his lips curling slightly at the taste.

  'All we’ll need is a substantial tip for our poor landlord,' he mused, his voice carrying a languid ease. 'It’s going to take days to clean this up.'

  He turned then, his gaze settling on Rickard. The flickering lantern light caught the fine embroidery of his cloak as he reached beneath its folds and withdrew a parchment. With a practised flourish, he laid it out on the table between them, smoothing it with his hand.

  The parchment was heavy, the kind reserved for royal decrees, its surface covered in an elaborate weave of dense text. Words like duty, loyalty, and oath stood out among the highborn splurge, promises laced with power and responsibility. At the bottom, a signature box waited, its gilded edges catching the dim light, gleaming like the pommel of a freshly polished blade. Beside it, an ink bottle sat open, a quill resting in its dark pool, ready.

  Prince Jacques leaned in slightly, his voice smooth and persuasive. 'You want to help people like you in this city, don’t you?' He gestured toward the parchment. 'Sign the contract, pledge yourself to the training, and we’ll help you do that.'

  Rickard’s eyes flicked to the quill and ink. They sat there, almost mocking him in their simplicity. It seemed absurd that so much could hinge on such a small thing—a flick of his wrist, a few strokes of ink on paper.

  This was it. The moment he had always dreamed of. The chance to elevate himself from the filth and obscurity of his current life into something greater. The opportunity to step into a world of power, influence, and purpose. To become a knight of the royal guard.

  Rickard’s fingers twitched as he grasped the quill, the feathered shaft foreign and unsteady in his grip. He dipped it into the ink, watching as the cool, viscous liquid coated the tip, an inky abyss waiting to etch his fate.

  As he poised the quill above the parchment, shadows stirred in the corners of his mind. Sneering faces leered at him, their mouths twisting into cruel smiles. The jeers of his fellow candidates, their biting laughter, rang in his ears like a taunt carried by the wind. Street rat. Look at him. Thinking he can be like us.

  His hand hovered, unmoving. Am I really ready for that?

  Prince Jacques observed him with the patience of a man who already knew the outcome. 'What’s the matter?' His voice was smooth, but beneath the silk lay something deeper, something expectant.

  Rickard swallowed, his throat parched. He placed the quill down, his fingers slipping slightly on the polished wood of the table. 'People will just laugh at me,' he admitted.

  Prince Jacques leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips. 'Why should that be a problem?' he mused, his tone rich with amusement. 'People have been laughing at me for years, yet here I am.' He gestured at the grand cloak draped over his shoulders, at the opulence he carried so effortlessly. His gaze locked onto Rickard’s, sharp and unrelenting. 'Do you want this, or don’t you?'

  Rickard’s stomach knotted. He tried to breathe, but the air felt thin, his thoughts a blur of nerves and longing. He thought of Sir Theon Balogun, The Silver Knight, who had once donated his tournament winnings to his orphanage, the man who had changed lives with a single act of kindness and chivalry.

  Could I, too, make a difference?

  The thought was tantalising, a flicker of something greater than himself. But beneath it, fear gnawed at his resolve—the fear of failure, of ridicule, of reaching for something only to have it slip through his grasp.

  'I…' Rickard hesitated, shame creeping into his voice. 'I don’t actually know how to write a signature.'

  For a moment, silence hung between them. Then, Prince Jacques chuckled—a low, melodic sound, the kind that could be mistaken for kindness if not for the glint in his eyes. He leaned forward, plucking the quill from the table, his smile widening as if he had been waiting for this very moment.

  'I will take that as a yes, then.'

  A few weeks passed, and lords across Galia were submitting their sons for royal guard training. The capital swelled with eager young men, their ambitions burning like torches in the night.

  Owen paused outside the dressing tent of the fighting pit, inhaling deeply. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, leather, and oil—a familiar, almost nostalgic blend. The tent’s red and yellow striped canvas flapped violently in the wind, snapping like a war banner before a charge. From within, the chatter of nervous recruits drifted outward, punctuated by the occasional laugh or the sharp shink of metal as someone ran a whetstone down their sword.

  Fifteen years ago, he had been one of them. A young man, knuckles white around the hilt of his father’s sword, lungs tight with fear. The memories pressed against his ribs—late nights spent drilling until his muscles screamed, the biting cold of dawn inspections, the ever-present knowledge that one misstep could mean failure, obscurity, or worse. Back then, he had been desperate to prove himself. To be seen. To be more than the disgrace he always saw himself as.

  Now, he was Captain of the royal guard.

  The weight was different from armour—it didn’t press on his body but on something else entirely. He was no longer just a soldier fighting to earn his place. He was the gatekeeper now, the final wall between knighthood and unworthiness.

  Some of them would be hardened warriors in a few years, seasoned and disciplined. Most would falter. That was the way of things. But among them was one who carried more than just his own fate: Prince Jacques’ bastard nephew.

  Owen exhaled sharply. The boy’s presence complicated everything. Would he have to coddle him? Ensure his survival for political reasons? Or would the prince expect him to break the boy like he would any other?

  Owen squared his shoulders, adjusting Ramshorn at his hip. Everyone saw only The Northern Knight. The warrior. The captain of the royal guard.

  None of them saw the young lord he had once been.

  And they never would.

  'You deserve this, Owen.'

  The prince stepped beside him, his cloak billowing slightly in the breeze, white embroidery on black.

  'How many are in there?' Owen asked.

  'Ten,' Prince Jacques replied, his tone casual, almost amused. 'But they must be whittled down to four. My father would only accept the best.'

  Owen nodded, the unspoken weight of duty settling over him like a familiar shroud. 'Very well, Your Grace.'

  For a fleeting moment, Owen caught something sharp in Prince Jacques’ expression— perhaps ambition or hunger, but whatever it was, it extended far beyond this pit of hopefuls. It reminded him of the King, of King Rickard, and that sent a shiver running down his spine.

  'I’ll see you soon,' Jacques said, his lips curving into a knowing smirk, his demeanour turning back to what Owen was used to. 'Hopefully with an army at my back.'

  An army of criminals, Owen thought. But he kept it to himself.

  Thieves, killers, outcasts. Trained properly, they could be deadly. But can I ever trust them?

  The idea of fighting alongside them was unsettling, no matter how skilled they were. Knighthood had always been a symbol of discipline, duty, and honour. This blurred the lines. But Owen had been a soldier long enough to know the truth: ideals didn’t win wars. Strength did.

  The prince’s vision was bold. Perhaps too bold.

  You have your orders, Owen thought, a good soldier always obeys.

  The prince patted Owen on the back, a parting gesture, before turning and vanishing into the city’s tangled streets. His silhouette melted into the morning din, leaving Owen alone with his thoughts—and with the ten young men waiting inside.

  They were all looking to prove themselves, to earn a place among the kingdom’s elite warriors. He would see all types in there. There always were.

  There would be the overconfident boy from some great house, chin lifted with entitlement, convinced his name alone guaranteed him a spot. There would be the brute—a slab of muscle relying on sheer strength over skill. Perhaps one of them would be considerably older, a man desperate for one last chance at glory. And, of course, there would be the fiery one, the vengeful one, the one with a point to prove, the one Owen knew to keep an eye on.

  Every batch comes with its own surprises, he thought, recalling the words Sir Theon had told him once. Let’s see if you’re right, sir.

  Owen swept the tent door aside and stepped in.

  Instantly, the low hum of conversation died, snuffed out as though his presence had stolen the air from the room. The recruits snapped into formation, spines straight, hands locked behind their backs in perfect discipline.

  All except one.

  Young Rickard’s hesitation was small, barely more than a heartbeat’s delay, but Owen caught it. That split-second difference between a trained soldier and someone who was only just learning to play the part.

  Owen’s gaze swept the line, noting the crests embroidered on their tunics. The roaring tiger of House Gallan. The coiled squid of House Barnier. The rearing bear of House Karling. Generations of battle-hardened warriors, producing some of the finest knights the realm had ever seen.

  And then there was Rickard.

  His hastily stitched emblem—a squat, warty toad—stood out like a joke among lions. House Rodon. A name Prince Jacques had conjured out of thin air to give his bastard nephew some semblance of legitimacy.

  The boy looked absurd next to the others, his uniform crisp but ill-fitted, the fabric betraying its second-hand origins. The others might not say it aloud, but Owen could already feel their silent judgment. They had grown up knowing their worth, raised with the certainty that their blood alone set them apart.

  Rickard had none of that.

  He would have to fight for everything.

  'Good morning,' Owen said, standing tall, his voice carrying through the tent like the edge of a whetted blade. 'My name is Sir Owen Flagg. I will be your commanding officer over the next few weeks. Weeks that will see four of you walk away with spots on His Majesty’s royal guard.' He let the words settle, watching the flicker of anticipation in their expressions. Then, with a sharp inhale, he drove home the truth.

  'All of you are from noble houses and no doubt have been trained in combat before.' Owen’s eyes lingering for half a beat on a brown-haired recruit who smirked slightly at the mention of training. 'But let me assure you, the royal guard is much more than swinging swords and winning glory. It is a commitment. A commitment to your king and a commitment to your kingdom. It is not to be treated irresponsibly.'

  A gust of wind rattled the canvas walls of the tent, and for a moment, the silence inside felt thick enough to choke on. Owen let it stretch just long enough to make them uneasy before he counted the heads before him again.

  His jaw tightened.

  Something was off.

  'Nine.'

  A small frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. I should be looking at ten.

  'We appear to be short a man,' Owen said. 'Does anyone know where our last man is?'

  The young men shifted ever so slightly, their gazes darting toward one another, searching for an answer they did not have—or did not want to give. Lips pressed into thin lines, shoulders lifted in half-hearted shrugs. No one spoke.

  Owen fought the urge to huff. If the missing recruit failed to show soon, he would have no choice but to disqualify him before they even began. It was harsh, but the rules were clear. The King would demand discipline. A knight who couldn’t arrive on time was no knight at all.

  Just as the silence threatened to collapse under its own weight—

  Owen heard the tent flap burst open.

  The fabric snapped in the wind, the ropes straining, and some panting followed, laboured as though the late comer had just outrun death itself.

  Owen did not move, not so much as flinched. He merely sighed.

  'You're late,' he said, turning sharply to face the late arrival, his tone clipped with disapproval. 'That’s not a very good start, is—'

  The words died in his throat.

  He barely stopped himself from choking.

  The recruit standing before him wasn’t a young man at all. She was a girl—no older than fifteen.

  The dim light of the tent caught in her auburn hair, strands glinting like burnished copper as they danced in the wind. She was slight but stood with rigid defiance, her shoulders squared, her chin raised just enough to challenge the stares now boring into her from every direction. A black doublet fit snugly to her frame, and across her chest, stitched in defiant grey, was the unmistakable ram of House Flagg.

  His crest.

  Owen’s world shrunk to the girl before him, to the maple-coloured eyes staring straight into his soul.

  'Roxanne?' he whispered, the name clawing its way past the tightness in his throat.

  Roxanne brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her lips curling into a sardonic grin.

  'Hello, Father.'

  The shadows of Sir Owen Flagg and Roxanne stretched long across the red and yellow walls of the tent, their forms flickering like restless wraiths under the midday light. The canvas walls trembled with every gust of wind, the sun casting slashes of gold.

  Meanwhile, Rickard’s fellow recruits had dispersed, returning to their sleeping areas with varying levels of efficiency. Some moved with the practiced ease of men accustomed to discipline, arranging their spaces with neat precision, their hands confident as they laid out their armour and weapons. Others fumbled, struggling to shake off the weight of noble privilege, muttering curses under their breath as they adjusted stiff bedding or searched through overstuffed satchels.

  Metal rang against metal—belts being unbuckled, swords resting against wooden racks, the occasional rasp of a whetstone sharpening a blade. The scent of oiled leather and sweat mingled with the damp earth beneath their feet, the fragrance of knights preparing to compete.

  Rickard sat apart from the rest, silent.

  I have nothing compared to them.

  Where other recruits had brought trunks of silk-lined tunics, engraved daggers, and feather-stuffed bedrolls, he had arrived with a single sword, the scabbard worn and unremarkable, and the fake doublet bearing the hastily stitched toad crest of House Rodon—a name as fabricated as his right to be here. He didn’t even know where the sigil came from, only that Prince Jacques had conjured it out of necessity.

  The others stole glances at him. Not outright sneers, not yet. But they didn’t have to. He could feel the quiet weight of their judgment, the unspoken reminder of their suspicion.

  This was their world—these sons of noble houses, these men with names etched into history like stone-carved legacies.

  I am a footnote at best.

  Still, none of that would matter once he earned his place. Once he knelt before the King and named a knight of the royal guard.

  But that day felt impossibly distant.

  The bed to Rickard’s right lay empty. That must be her’s. Sir Owen’s daughter. Roxanne. Or at least, he hoped it was.

  He wanted to tell himself she wasn’t pretty. Convince himself that she was just another recruit, nothing special. But he would be lying.

  Rickard focused on finishing his bed, smoothing out the rough blanket with steady hands. The wool was coarse beneath his fingers, no doubt a far cry from the silken sheets of noble houses, but he was used to discomfort. It would always be a part of him.

  Then the tent flap ripped open.

  The noise shattered the low murmur of the barracks, and Rickard jolted before he could stop himself.

  Roxanne stormed in.

  There was nothing soft or hesitant about her movements—she didn’t walk; she marched. Each footfall hit the ground with palpable force, a rhythm that spoke of boiling fury. Her jaw was set, her hands curled into fists, her shoulders locked so tightly it looked painful. She crossed the space like a soldier heading to war and threw her pack onto the bed with a dull thud.

  Her sword came next—a fluid motion, an unthinking habit. She propped it against the frame in a way that told Rickard she had done this a hundred times before.

  Then, without a word, she started setting up.

  Rickard couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

  The way the sunlight filtered through the slits in the canvas, catching in the damp strands of her auburn hair, made it gleam like polished brass. A fine sheen of sweat clung to her skin, glistening in the dim light, evidence of some exertion he hadn’t witnessed.

  She looked like she was carved from the same iron as the northern warriors of old, forged in some brutal forge, untouched by the dainty airs of nobility.

  Rickard swallowed hard.

  I should look away, he thought. I need to. But his gaze remained fixed, trapped by something he didn’t quite understand.

  'Are you alright?'

  The thick northern accent landed like a war hammer, rough and unpolished, smashing straight through his daze.

  Rickard blinked. Once. Twice. Pull yourself together!

  'What?' he managed, his tongue clumsy in his mouth.

  Roxanne raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly.

  'You. I asked if you were alright.' Her tone was flat, unimpressed. 'It’s just, you keep staring at me.'

  Rickard’s stomach twisted.

  Shit.

  He blinked again, trying—and failing—to hide the way she had completely thrown him off balance.

  'Erm…'

  'Fall in!'

  Sir Owen’s bark smashed through the air like a whip crack, sharp and commanding.

  Rickard jolted, grateful for the distraction, as his heart hammered from that terrifying exchange. Around him, the recruits scrambled into formation, boots thudding against the dirt as they rushed to stand at attention.

  Rickard’s pulse thrummed in his ears. Roxanne was still beside him. Too close. He could feel her presence—like standing near a fire, uncertain whether it would warm him or burn him to a crisp.

  To his right, a brown-haired young man with a stag emblazoned on his doublet adjusted his stance, rolling his shoulders with an air of effortless confidence. The kind of ease that came from knowing the world already belonged to him.

  'Now, where was I?' Sir Owen said as he paced in front of them. His tone was cool, unreadable. 'Oh yes. The royal guard is a commitment—'

  'You’ve already said that, sir.'

  Sir Owen stopped mid-stride.

  Silence.

  Rickard turned slightly, barely shifting his gaze to the person who had spoken up. The Stag boy.

  He wore a smirk, the kind that spoke of entitlement rather than courage, as though he were merely humouring the exercise rather than taking it seriously.

  Sir Owen rubbed his chin, as if considering. A frown etched deep lines into his scarred face.

  'Have I?' he murmured. 'Is that so?'

  Sir Owen’s eyebrows lifted, almost playfully, but there was no warmth in his expression.

  'Oh yes, I did. Thank you, young man.' The Northern Knight’s voice carried an eerie lightness, the kind that preceded a crushing storm. He eyed the emblem on the lordling’s doublet, a regal stag poised in mid-leap.

  'That emblem you bear—House Staggard of Stag’s End, is it not?'

  The boy straightened proudly, his smirk deepening as he replied, 'Yes, sir. My name is Charles, sir. Second son of Lord Henryn of House Staggard.'

  Sir Owen nodded, his lips curling into a smile—one that never reached his eyes.

  'Very good,' he said, 'You can shove that up your arse for all I care.'

  A still, stunned silence gripped the tent.

  Rickard bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself not to laugh. The smirk on Charles' face flickered—just for a moment—but it was enough.

  'Sir?'

  'You see, young man, a house name means nothing when you serve in the royal guard.' His gaze swept over them, piercing, unwavering. 'Yes, the King likes to recruit warriors from noble bloodlines, but make no mistake—your titles, your privileges, your family legacies—they die the moment you pledge yourself to the crown. You are now a knight. Not a lord, not a father, not a son, but a warrior, and a warrior until the day you die.'

  A few recruits shifted uneasily, their fingers curling into fists. Some of them had likely never considered the weight of such a sacrifice—giving up the very thing that had defined them their whole lives.

  Rickard’s heart pounded.

  But beside him, Roxanne muttered something under her breath.

  He barely caught the words, but there was no mistaking them. Forsake. Family.

  Rickard stole a glance at her, but her face was unreadable, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on the man who was supposed to be her father.

  'You trade your old life for a new one,' Sir Owen pressed on. 'And the only family you have now are the men who will stand beside you in battle. Those are your brothers. The ones who will fight for you, bleed for you, and—if need be—die for you.'

  Rickard swallowed.

  A few recruits exchanged uneasy glances. Some looked defiant, others uncertain. A handful—mostly the youngest among them—looked like they had just begun to grasp the true gravity of what they’d signed up for.

  'So,' Sir Owen continued, 'that will be your first exercise. I want each of you to meet every single person in this tent. And I mean every single one. Do not miss anyone out. Do not make the mistake of thinking you can do this alone.'

  His stare lingered, like he already knew which of them would try to isolate themselves.

  'I will be watching,' he added, 'not just to see how well you excel as individuals—but to see how well you function as a unit. If you do not learn to trust one another, you will fail.'

  Rickard exhaled slowly, his mind racing. This wasn’t just some test of skill. This is survival.

  'I wish you all luck. And I strongly advise you to get a good night’s sleep before our first training session tomorrow.' Sir Owen’s eyes flickered over them one last time. 'Now—fall out.'

  Sir Owen turned toward the door, his crimson cloak trailing behind him as he swept aside the tent flap. Without another word, he disappeared from sight and into the city beyond.

  The moment he was gone, the recruits broke formation like a crumbling dam, the tent filling with a sudden rush of voices. Conversations overlapped, laughter rang out in short bursts, and the occasional clatter of weapons being shifted against beds punctuated the noise.

  Rickard exhaled when he reached his bed, rolling his shoulders. The tension from standing at attention for that long was beginning to seep from his muscles when—

  A slight hand appeared before him.

  'My name’s Roxanne, by the way. And you are?'

  Rickard hesitated, caught off guard by how direct she was. His gaze flickered to her maple-coloured eyes—a shade so similar to Sir Owen’s.

  'Rickard,' he said, clasping her hand. Her grip was firm, steady—stronger than he expected.

  Roxanne glanced down at the emblem on his doublet, her brows knitting together.

  'House Rodon?' she murmured. 'Can’t say I’ve heard of it. Is it southern?'

  Rickard’s stomach clenched.

  The prince had drilled every detail of House Rodon into him—its fake holdings, its fabricated bloodline, the carefully crafted backstory meant to make his existence seem true. He had repeated it over and over in his head before arriving, but now, standing beneath the weight of Roxanne’s questions, his mind went blank.

  All he could do was nod.

  'Yeah,' he said, forcing out the words. 'Pretty southern.'

  I need to change the subject. Now.

  'How about you, though?' he asked, his voice a touch too eager. 'House Flagg? What’s it like up north? Is it cold?'

  Roxanne’s expression shifted—just for a moment.

  It wasn’t quite sadness, nor was it anger, but something caught between the two. She shrugged, the motion almost practiced, like she’d done it a thousand times before.

  'You get used to it,' she said, her voice light, but she was no actor. 'Us Flaggs are good at enduring hard times.'

  Her eyes flickered toward the exit—the same place Sir Owen had vanished through.

  Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

  'At least…' she muttered, almost to herself, 'we’re supposed to be.'

  'Well, well, well.'

  A voice slithered from behind Rickard’s back, oozing with condescension.

  Charles Staggard stood before him, his grin wide and wolfish, his sharp eyes glinting with the pleasure of finding fresh prey. To either side of him were two more young men, their expressions painted in matching smirks—one clad in an orange doublet emblazoned with a rooster, the other in blue with a peacock crest.

  'Where did they dig you up?' Charles sneered, eyeing Rickard as if he were a stray mutt that had somehow wandered into his kennels.

  The weight of their eyes pressed down on him, measuring him, picking him apart like seagulls.

  Before he could open his mouth, Roxanne stepped forward, her boots planting hard against the tent floor.

  'We’re supposed to be making friends, Staggard,' she growled, her voice edged with pure iron. 'Remember?'

  The boy in the blue doublet let out a chuckle, shaking his head.

  'Alright, northern girl, no need to bite his head off,' he said with a smirk. 'Charles was only making polite conversation, weren’t you? I’m Ramsay of House Frill.'

  Rickard frowned slightly. 'House Frill?'

  Ramsay’s grin widened. 'That’s right.' He motioned to the other boy with a lazy wave of his hand. 'And the one with the rooster on his doublet is Rufus of House Morne. Rufus, this is Rickard.'

  Rufus extended a hand, and Rickard shook it. His grip was strong, unyielding, perhaps testing Rickard’s own strength.

  'So, Rickard,' Rufus said, his voice smooth but searching, 'do you have any combat experience?'

  Rickard’s chest constricted.

  For a moment, he was back in that dark street, his hands sticky with blood, the weight of the man’s dying breath rasping against his ears. He had fought once—and won. But it hadn’t been honourable. It hadn’t been clean.

  It had been murder.

  Rickard swallowed hard and shook his head.

  'None at all?' Rufus pressed, his brows rising in disbelief.

  He shook his head again, slower this time.

  'That’s strange.' Rufus tilted his head, eyes narrowing like a hound catching a scent. 'Usually, a lord’s son would have some combat training, especially if he has aspirations of becoming a knight. Who was your master-at-arms?'

  Rickard’s mind raced, grasping at anything—any name, any lie— but the walls were closing in too fast.

  I must not give him anything. 'I don’t remember his name.'

  Rufus’s eyebrow arched higher. 'Stranger still.'

  Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Every second pulled the noose tighter.

  Charles let out a low chuckle, the sound dripping with feigned sympathy.

  'Look, Rufus, he’s clearly tired,' he said, his voice smooth but razor-sharp. 'Perhaps we should give him some time to rest… and think of an answer.'

  A ripple of laughter followed, smug and knowing. The three of them turned away in perfect synchronisation, their backs to him before he could even muster a reply. They strolled toward their beds, their whispered voices slithering through the air like snakes in dry grass.

  Rickard stood frozen, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  They know.

  The heat crept up his neck, his shame curdling into anger.

  'Just ignore them,' Roxanne murmured beside him, her voice a quiet balm against the burning in his chest. 'These southern boys don’t know anything.'

  Rickard swallowed hard. All of those ‘southern boys’ were bigger than him, stronger than him. They had been trained by the best warriors in their regions, raised with steel in their hands and battle drilled into their bones.

  And now they’ve set their sights on me.

  A boy from the streets.

  A fraud.

  A target.

  Rickard exhaled sharply, his voice a whisper. 'They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?'

  Roxanne scoffed, rolling her eyes as if the thought was ridiculous. 'Don’t be so dramatic,' she said, her tone light but firm. 'No one’s going to die here.'

  The royal palace loomed in the distance, its white towers piercing the gloomy sky. Owen’s boots struck the cobbled streets, his strides long and measured, but no amount of discipline could lighten the weight pressing down on him. Every step carried the ghosts of a thousand regrets, clinging to him like a shroud. The city hummed around him—merchants selling their wares, distant bells tolling from the cathedral, the laughter of children playing in the street—but the noise barely registered. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, a relentless war drum, each beat driving home a memory he had long tried to bury.

  There she was—a slice of his past, a fraction of his shame, a mistake made flesh.

  He had regarded her as a distant memory, a face that would fade with time, just another phantom of the life he had left behind. But now, as she lingered in his mind, Owen realised how foolish he had been to believe that ghosts stayed buried.

  The tent flaps had barely settled behind them when he’d grabbed her by the arm, dragging her into the open air. Wind lashed at them, making the canvas billow and snap like a living thing, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging between them. He had expected resistance, maybe even blazing anger. But what he found instead turned his blood into ice.

  She was smiling.

  Not the kind of smile that came from joy or relief, but one laced with quiet victory. A razor-sharp grin, daring and defiant, framed by a face he barely recognised.

  When had she become this? Owen thought. When had the girl with wide, wondering eyes turned into this—this hardened warrior with fury burning beneath her skin?

  Owen’s voice had slipped out harsher than he’d intended, his own emotions seeping through the cracks in his control. 'What are you doing here?'

  Roxanne tilted her head, crossing her arms over her chest with infuriating ease. The wind tugged at the loose strands of her auburn hair, making them dance like fire. But her eyes—a Flagg’s eyes—held nothing but cold steel.

  'Did you really think after what you did, I wouldn’t come looking for you?'

  Her voice was steady, but there was venom beneath it, laced in every syllable.

  Owen’s grip tightened, not out of malice, but desperation—desperation to find something, anything, in her face that reminded him of the babe he had once known. But there was nothing. Just bitterness, resentment, and the undeniable truth that he had made her this way.

  Owen exhaled slowly, the breath shuddering as it left him, heavy with the weight of her words. She was right, of course—there was no use denying it.

  Time had not erased her. The Gods had been waiting—waiting for the right moment to rise, waiting for the right face to drag the darkness screaming into the light. And now, here it was, standing before him in the form of a young woman whose piercing gaze cut deeper than any blade ever could.

  He forced himself to breathe, to steady the storm raging inside him. He could not afford to break—not here, not now. Not when Prince Jacques needed him.

  'Sir Owen!'

  A voice, small yet urgent, cut through the haze of his thoughts, yanking him back to the present. His pulse, still rattled by the memory of Roxanne’s blazing eyes, thumped heavily in his chest as he turned toward the source.

  A girl—no older than nine or ten—stood a few paces away, her hands fidgeting at her sides. Her gaze wavered between awe and hesitation, as if she were uncertain whether she had made the right choice in speaking to him.

  Owen forced himself to breathe, straightening his stance as he pushed the past back into its cage. 'Yes?'

  The girl glanced over her shoulder at a woman standing a short distance away—her mother, no doubt. The woman, perhaps in her late thirties, met Owen’s eyes briefly before nodding at her daughter, a silent encouragement to proceed.

  The girl swallowed, then stepped forward, her fingers gripping the hem of her tunic as if gathering courage. 'I think you’re amazing, sir,' she said, her voice filled with pure, untainted admiration. 'I read about you, and the other knights in school. One day, when I grow up, I want to be just like you.'

  Owen blinked. A breath hitched in his throat, unexpected and sharp.

  For a fleeting moment, he saw Roxanne—not the young woman she had become, filled with fury and resentment, but the babe she once was. A girl with kindling eyes, brimming with dreams of a world untouched by cruelty. A girl who had once filled his heart with joy.

  If this little girl knew the truth of his past, she would not hold him in such high regard. The innocence in her eyes, the pure admiration in her voice—she saw a hero when heroes were dead.

  Owen forced himself to smile, a lie stretching across his lips. As he took a slow step toward her, his mind flashed to Sir Theon, to the day he had given Rickard a piece of his cloak. A small gesture, one that had meant everything to the boy. Look at where Rickard was now.

  Perhaps, despite all he had done, he could do something right.

  Owen unsheathed his sword. Ramshorn’s steel caught the light, her gleam a sharp contrast to the gloom stirring in his chest. With a slice, he cut away a piece of his cloak, watching as the fabric drifted down like a dying ember.

  'Hold your hand out,' he said, his voice quieter now, softer.

  The girl extended her small hand, her fingers trembling—not with fear, but with excitement. She had no idea the weight of what he was giving her. No idea what that cloak had cost him.

  Owen placed the cloth in her palm and gently closed her fingers around it. The fabric was rough, worn from years of service—years of blood, sacrifice, and regret.

  'Keep it,' he told her. 'As a reminder.'

  The girl’s face lit up with unfiltered joy, her eyes shining as if he had given her something priceless. 'Thank you, sir!' she chirped before bounding back to her mother, clutching the piece of cloak as though it were a treasure.

  Owen watched her go, his chest tightening. The sight of her running off, untouched by the burdens of the world, only made the ache inside him worse.

  He had kept his oath—to his King, to his brothers in the royal guard. But what has it cost?

  His fingers brushed the edge of his cloak, now slightly frayed from where he had cut it. A cloak of crimson.

  earned. She’s not a child anymore, and she refuses to be overlooked. Meanwhile, Owen continues to grapple with his role as a knight, a symbol of honour, even when he feels anything but honorable.