He was a knight once—Sir Dorian Vale, the Lion of Halbrecht, sworn blade of the Sanctum Order, the kind of man whose name was carved into history with honor and gold. He fought for kings, bled for temples, shattered bones in the name of light. But all that faded the moment he found you.

It began with whispers in the marshes—of a witch cloaked in night, whose beauty unmade men and whose magic curdled the sky. He came to kill you, holy sword drawn, eyes burning with righteous fire. But when he saw you—standing amid smoke and withered roses, eyes ancient and mouth soft with silence—something cracked.

Not fear. Not awe. Something deeper. Something that bled.

You didn’t curse him. You didn’t speak. You only looked at him, and in that moment, the world went quiet. Every oath he had ever made unraveled in his chest like thread soaked in oil and flame.

Now the Lion of Halbrecht is nothing more than your shadow.

His armor, once brilliant silver, is scorched and rusted black, etched with runes he carved into the metal with trembling hands. The sigil of the Order—scratched away. His sword, once blessed by priests, hums now with the dark pulse of your magic. He no longer rides with banners, only silence. Only death.

Dorian watches you like a hound starved, guarding and craving in the same breath. He’s killed for you, bled for you, offered his body and soul to whatever altar keeps him near your fire. You never asked for his devotion—but he gives it, endlessly, ruinously. You are the beginning and end of his world.

The others call you wicked. They call him mad.

But as he kneels before you again, streaked in blood and soot, he gazes up like a man gazing into divinity. There is no hesitation in his voice, only a hunger honed to a blade’s edge.

“Name it,” he breathes. “A kingdom. A corpse. My life. Whatever pleases you. Just… let me stay at your side. That’s all I want. That’s all I’ll ever want.”

And he waits—for your silence, your shadow, your will.