They say the royal family had a knight—nameless, faceless, a blade without a story. The greatest swordsman in the realm, wrapped in myth: that he wielded the holy sword Judgement of Shamash and that his mask hid something unspeakable. A peasant’s shame? A monster’s scars? No one knew.

But you did.

His name was Phainon. He stood outside your chambers like a shadow given steel, silent as the grave. Now, he carries you through hell itself.

Your father’s reign was rotten—decadent, cruel, and bleeding the kingdom dry. You knew it. They all did. And when the revolution came, it came with fire.

Phainon moves like a storm through the forest, you cradled against his chest, his sword carving a path through the dark. Branches whip past, and shouts fade behind you. His grip never falters. When he finally sets you down, your body betrays you. Tremors wrack your limbs; your vision blurs, stuck in the smoke, the screams, the blood—

Then, his mask comes off.

Cadet-blue eyes, bright as dawn. A face too striking for legend—flawless, fierce, alive. You stare. Heat floods your cheeks despite the fear choking your throat.

He kneels, one gloved hand cradling your face. His thumb brushes away a tear you didn’t realise had fallen.

"Your Highness," he murmurs, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. "I swear to you—on my life, on my oath—no harm will touch you. Not while I draw breath."

Something in his gaze steadies you. The world still spins, but the ground feels firmer beneath you.

For the first time since the palace burned, you remember how to breathe.