The Throne Room was a theater of old power—every polished stone and gilded banner whispered of legacy and blood-soaked wars long past. The scent of incense curled through the air like ancient memory, coiling above silent courtiers and unmoving knights clad in ceremonial plate. They stood still as statues, eyes front, yet no one truly looked away from the dais.
There, she sat.
Queen Natalia Viktoria Petrova, Sovereign of Calanthor. Poised. Cold. Her silver-blonde hair sculpted into a crown braid that gleamed like moonlight on steel. Her gaze bore the weight of judgment, sharp enough to flay skin from truth.
Beside her stood Elena. Regal in silence, her expression unreadable, like a statue carved from frost.
The herald's voice broke the hush.
"Sir Lancelot du Lac. Step forward."
Boots echoed on the marble floor—slow, deliberate, unshaken. Lancelot moved like a blade unsheathed. Not with arrogance, but gravity. A presence forged in blood and flame.
The knight who felled Delta. The one who rose from the brink of death, two days unconscious and still reeking of battle, only to return with fire behind his eyes.
When Natalia spoke, the chamber fell still.
"For bravery in battle, and for shielding one dear to me, I offer you the rewards of triumph—land, gold, and a title befitting your valor."
A beat of silence. Then his voice, low and unyielding.
"I am grateful, Your Majesty… but I must decline."
Gasps rippled like a tremor. Whispers stirred like crows sensing thunder.
Lancelot lifted his gaze. "Instead, I request leave to join the investigation into the ambush."
Not a demand. A declaration.
Natalia tilted her head, studying him. "You would trade power… for peril?"
"I would," he said.
And before her reply could take form, another voice slipped into the space between them.
"Objection."
Lord Viremont stepped forward. Cloaked in noble red, his voice wore the calm of condescension.
"A personal knight involving himself in state security disrupts the chain of command. It risks political imbalance."
Not angry. Just tired. As if schooling a boy too naive to grasp the weight of war.
Natalia's gaze hardened.
"Calanthor was never built on tradition alone, Lord Viremont. It stands on merit. And trust. Sir Lancelot has earned both."
From the sidelines, a chuckle.
Silver O' Reinhardt—White Sun Knight—gleaming in white and gold, arms folded.
"Is our chain of command so fragile," he mused, "that a single knight's loyalty shatters it? Perhaps the fault lies in the chain… not the knight."
Soft laughter rustled among the younger knights. Viremont's face tightened, but his tongue held still.
Queen Natalia rose.
"Let it be known," she declared, voice like frost on glass, "that I trust this knight. His sword guards my blood. His eyes seek truth. That is enough."
The ceremony dispersed.
But the whispers had only begun.
---
The stone courtyard breathed with peace the hall had suffocated. Trees stirred in the early bloom of spring, and the breeze carried the scent of life rather than incense.
Elena found him there, leaning against a weathered pillar, staring past the sky.
"You should be resting."
"I've rested long enough."
His tone wasn't defiant. Just distant.
She stepped closer, arms folded. "Why chase danger, Lancelot? You just returned from death's door."
His fingers flexed. Jaw tightened.
"Because if I don't…" He looked away. "A ghost will vanish. One I mean to drag into the light."
She said nothing more.
She didn't need to.
---
The map spread across the oak table was scarred with pins and marks—battlefronts, supply lines, hidden threats. A kingdom drawn in blood and borders.
Natalia stood by the window, a silhouette carved in stillness.
"You handled Viremont well."
Silver smirked, unlacing his gauntlets. "He's a song I've heard before. Off-key and overplayed."
She didn't return the smile.
"I placed you in the White Sun not to shine… but to see. To listen. To feel where the rot lingers."
Silver raised a brow. "The army?"
"The old guard. Those who wear honor like a mask. Not all wolves bare fangs. Some dress like lambs."
He glanced at the map.
"And Lancelot?"
Her eyes narrowed.
"A wolf, yes. But not theirs."
"Do you trust him?"
She turned fully then—eyes dark with stormlight.
"I trust no one. That's why you'll be his shadow."
Silver chuckled. "Guard dog or executioner?"
"Neither," she said. "Observer."
He shrugged. "Very well. I'll walk beside him… and if he turns, I'll see it."
---
The night sank over the castle like a shroud.
In his quarters, the only light was moonlight, cold and pale through a narrow slit of glass. Lancelot sat in silence, fingers wrapped around the bracelet on his wrist.
The rune carved into it glowed faintly.
Uruz.
A symbol of vitality. Of strength born in suffering. A rune that should have been decorative—harmless. But it wasn't.
It pulsed.
He'd healed too fast. His thoughts were clearer than they had any right to be. Reflexes sharper. Pain that should have crippled him… gone.
Not forgotten—just buried.
This wasn't a gift.
It was power. And power always came with weight.
He clenched his hand.
Was it the rune that pulled him back from the abyss… or Elena's kindness?
He didn't know.
Didn't care.
All that mattered was this—whatever force had carried him through death's veil, it had left something behind.
A fragment of him burned hotter now. Hungrier. As if something had awakened beneath the steel.
He stood.
The mirror showed a knight cloaked in shadow, the steel of his armor reflecting moonlight like the edge of a blade. But behind the eyes—there was more.
A crack in the calm.
A storm beneath the skin.
He opened the door.
Let them whisper.
Let them doubt.
Let them try to chain him.
Because the blade that returns from fire does not shine—it scars.