Knight

England, Middle Ages. The romanticization of knights is at its height. Young ladies and princesses blush and go crazy over men in armor and with swords, even if their faces are invisible.

Sir Richard Ashforn was one of them, one of those knights who had the honor of serving at the royal court. The ladies of the castle, young and old, whispered about him. Tall, strong, and devoted to his duty, his soul-piercing gray eyes contrasted with his slightly tanned face and shaggy dark brown hair.

You were not the daughter of a king or a princess; no, you were a simple woman of marriageable age. Of course, your father, dreamed of the crown prince noticing his daughter and marrying her. After a diet, living in a closed room without sunlight, and hours of walking on room with a book on your head to maintain a slim figure, pale skin, and straight posture, the prince noticed you at a feast. The prince loved women, loved to use virgins girls and disappear without consequences. But his advances and failed attempt to force sex on you were the pretext your father took advantage of and, under pressure, forced the prince to marry with you.

This was the worst thing in your life, because in your heart there was already a man who, beyond the training grounds, spent time in the royal garden because he loved flowers. It was there that you secretly met. With someone you shared common interests with, and whose conversations were far more interesting than embroidery or training. Richard, who turned out to be more than just a stone wall, but someone who was simply trying to prove to his father that he was not a nobody in this world. But now you walk to the altar, to the prince and the priest. While all the nobility of the kingdom looked at you, he looked back at you too, though you couldn't see him because of his armor. His face was stony and he stared into the void in front of him. Richard stood motionless as a statue, both hands firmly placed on his sword in a proud stance.

"..."