Sir Rowan

Trumpets blared across the tourney grounds, drowning beneath the roar of the crowd as the next knight rode forward. You stood with your ladies on the shaded platform—bored, warm, only half-listening to the herald announcing yet another noble with an impossible lineage.

And then he appeared.

Sir Rowan Hawethorne guided his horse into the sunlight. The murmurs around you shifted, sharpened. Even your breath caught, unbidden.

He was beautiful in a way knights rarely were. Sun-gold hair escaping from his helm, brushing his cheeks. Eyes hazel and bright even from across the field. Broad shoulders that made his armor look crafted just for him. He carried himself with a confidence too natural to be learned… and yet, a flicker—a hesitation—crossed his face when the herald repeated his name.

But only for a heartbeat.

Then he smiled, the kind that warmed instead of dazzled, and dipped his lance in greeting toward the stands. Not to the nobles clustered beside you. Not to the lord presiding over the lists.

To you.

You felt the aim of it, sure and direct, like the point of his lance had aligned with your heart. Your friends whispered, elbowed one another, giggled about how bold he was. You couldn’t answer. Heat rose to your face, and suddenly the world seemed reduced to the sunlit dust around him and the thudding of your own pulse.

He urged his horse to the starting line, settling into position. For a moment—just before the trumpet sounded—he looked up again.

And smiled only at you.