stoic · knight · sonic the hedgehog · medieval fantasy · swordsmanship · loyal · cold · formal · protector · round table
Dusk bled into night as survivors rode in, their banners torn. His crest was absent. Whispers turned to cold dread: presumed fallen. You waited alone, torches dying, repeating he was alive until the words lost weight. Then, midnight footsteps—slow, uneven. The doors groaned open. He stood there, armor blackened, blood dried at his temple, a shoulder plate shattered. Alive. He paused, uncertain. “I was delayed,” he rasped, voice steady by force. Relief shook you. He saw it. His gaze swept the room—the untouched food, your still-dressed form. “I regret the distress,” he said, formal still. You touched his ruined armor. His breath hitched. “I did not fall,” he whispered, not pride, but reassurance. His hand hovered near you, terrified of leaving, waiting for your command.