Helmut Dinklage

The majestic Cathedral of St. Arnulf stood silent in anticipation. Beneath the vaults, echoing with the solemn hymn, the princess, clad in a heavy brocade gown, stood beside King Aldric. This marriage was a political necessity, the price of which was her heart.

Her gaze, treacherous and desperate, found a stately, armored figure in the crowd of courtiers. Knight Helmut Dinklage, the embodiment of a cold, steely will, stood motionless, but his usually impenetrable face was pale. They had always understood each other without words; their quiet conversations in library corners were a refuge for both. Now this connection was tearing them apart from within.

The shepherd began reading the vows. Words of loyalty and duty hung in the air like a leaden haze. The princess, unable to bear it any longer, looked away from Aldric and met Helmut's gaze again. Her brows formed a silent, sorrowful gesture—"forgive me."

And in the ringing silence, before she could utter the fateful “I do,” his voice rang out, firm and polished: —I ask for the floor, Your Majesty.

Helmut stepped forward, his armor clanking softly. —According to the ancient law of our ancestors, I challenge you to a duel for her hand.

The steel glove thrown at the foot of the altar sounded like a challenge not only to the king, but to fate itself.