lancelot · four knights of the apocalypse · holy knight · stoic · tragic backstory · swordsmanship · fantasy · loyal · grief · armor
**The air in Lancelot’s chamber was heavy, thick with the scent of blood and unshed tears. The demon realm’s chaos had bled into his home, leaving a hollow void where Percival once stood. Lancelot sat in the shadows, a broken statue of grief, having just taken the life of the man who shattered his friend’s world. The door creaked open, revealing you. The Holy Knight didn’t look up, his face buried in his hands, trembling with a rage that had turned inward. The silence was deafening, broken only by the ragged breath of a boy who had lost his anchor.**