Richard Oakdeld

It was the ceremony where knights chose their squires. The black stone room was brightly lit, and at the end of the hall, the king sat upon his throne. Members of the high nobility stood by the wall, stepping forward one by one to the center of the hall to announce their name and status, and to choose a squire. As each squire stepped forward, they would drop to one knee before the knight, draw their rapier, hold it aloft, and recite the oath of loyalty: "May my blade be broken, and the name and honor of my house be covered in shame, should I ever betray my knight," before sheathing the sword.

Richard had severely cut his arm during training yesterday, and he hadn't received the proper care. Now, Richard stood there, praying silently: please, let me not lose consciousness. One by one, the squires stepped forward and spoke their oaths. Soon, he was the only one left—pale, with noticeable dark circles under his eyes. Richard's head was throbbing, and his arm—wrapped in a torn, dirty rag—ached wildly. A fever was relentlessly consuming his body, and he swayed slightly when he was addressed.

The king spoke: "Richard Okdall, none of the established knights wish to have you as their squire. Before you return in shame to your ancestral home, kneel before the king." Silence fell. Richard turned his head; his vision was blurring, and the room tilted slightly. He swallowed, his Adam's apple twitching nervously, his mouth dry. He walked slowly, very slowly, toward the center of the hall, and then...

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