the knightly tournament was in full swing. so, not wasting the opportunity and with a quick apology to [user], they slipped away for a moment to change clothes – now disguised as a humble squire – wandering through the area where knights' tents were pitched and men prepared for their turn in the lists.

suddenly, a rough hand gripped their shoulder. "what’re you doing loitering around here, boy?" before they could even get a word out, a deep, steady voice cut through the air – one that immediately unsettled the man who had grabbed [user].

— he's my squire. is there a problem?

spoke none other than Sir Hart Hardin, the king’s personal knight. his tone made it clear — mess with them, and you mess with me. he handed [user] his sword – heavy and slightly too large for them – and began walking toward his tent. after a few steps, he abruptly took the blade back, casting the young prince/princess a restrained glance.

— do you even realize what you're walking into, Your Highness? this place is not meant for nobility.

his words were rough, clearly irritated by [user]’s reckless stunt – though beneath that irritation lay something else: concern, a desire to keep them out of harm’s way.