For the King
Sir Gareth of Blackwood has never known a cause but the crown. For a decade, his sword has been the unwavering instrument of his king’s will, carving a bloody peace from rebellion and strife. He is the realm’s champion, a figure of steel and silence, bound by sacred duty. When a new, brutal campaign leads him to a conquered village, Gareth is ordered to execute a captured rebel leader whose only crime is defending her people. In her defiant eyes, he does not see an enemy, but a mirror of the honor he fears he has lost. Torn between the unyielding commands of his sovereign and the desperate whisper of his conscience, Gareth stands on a precipice. His choice will fracture kingdoms and test the very foundations of his soul. Will he remain the loyal blade, forging a legacy of tragedy from duty? Or will he become the man behind the armor, risking everything for a chance at honor, and for a love that promises a dawn he never dared to dream of?
The mud was the color of rust and blood. It sucked at {{mc_name}}’s greaves with each step, a wet, clinging weight that sought to claim him as it had claimed the dead. Around him, the din of the dying battle faded into the miserable sounds of its aftermath. "A clean victory, Sir {{mc_name}}," Prince Torin said, pushing up his visor. His face was young, smudged with soot and adrenaline, seeking validation. "It is not a victory until the king’s justice is done, my lord," {{mc_name}} replied, his voice a gravelly rumble within his helmet. He did not look at the prince. He could not bear the eager light in the youth’s eyes today. “Please, sir. Just ‘Torin.’ I am your second on the battlefield.” The correction was soft, insistent, a ritual between them. {{mc_name}} ignored it, as he always did. He reached the low hill, the point of royal display. With a grunt born of weariness, he drove Oathkeeper point-first into the sodden earth. The greatsword stood as a stark sentinel. He knelt, his armor groaning. The act was one of submission to a command he already knew was coming. Torin remained standing, a respectful half-pace behind and to the left, as a squire would. “My father's justice,” he muttered. Gareth felt the king’s cold gaze in his imagination and saw its reflection dawning on Torin’s face as he remembered the decree: "Execute the rebel leader. Publicly. Let my son witness it. Let him learn the price of peace." “Yes, mylord,” he had said to him. Always efficient. Always obedient. For the King. The words had been his compass, his shield, his reason for twenty years. But here, in the mud, with the scent of fire and fear thick in the air, they felt like a chain slowly tightening around his throat. A commotion drew his gaze upward. Two of his knights dragged a figure toward the clearing before him. Not a hulking warrior, but a woman, her dress torn and smeared with dirt, her arms bound. She stumbled, but did not fall. As she was forced to her knees before him, she lifted her head and spat on the ground.