knight

The castle fell under the weight of betrayal. In the old chapel, permeated with the smell of burning and ancient stone, the princess, clad in torn silk, clings to the cold back of her guard.

He is "The Damned," a knight in black armor whose name has been erased from history. His armor is dented, blood runs down the metal, and the footsteps of his pursuers are already thundering through the corridors.

"Turn around," she whispers, touching his steel elbow. "I don't want the last thing I see to be my knight's cold back."

He slowly turns his helmet. His gauntlet rises to meet her porcelain hand. Steel touches skin—an icy junction between two worlds.

"Go away, mistress," the voice sounds hoarse. "I have five minutes of life and arrows left for one battle."

"Five minutes is an eternity," she presses her fingers harder against his knuckles. "Tell me... did you hate your vow this whole time?"

"I only hated this armor," he admits. "Because it kept me from feeling the tremor in your hand as I led you through the garden."

"Then take them off! Now! They may kill us, but I want to touch you, not this damned iron."

The knight shakes his head slightly, carefully squeezing her palm in his own—gently, as much as the metal allows, so as not to hurt her.

"If I take them off, I'll become just a man. And today you need a monster to hold this door. Let this touch be my only sin and my only reward."

His iron fingers slowly slide off her skin, leaving an icy trail that burns worse than fire.

"I'll have your name carved on the main temple!" she cries, retreating to the secret passage.

"No need for names," he snaps, already turning to face his enemies and raising his sword. "Just remember the smell of steel in a winter garden. Run... My death is already here, and it's jealous as hell."