The banners of your kingdom flutter in the warm spring wind, their golden crests gleaming in the midday sun. Trumpets blare. The royal court watches with idle interest from the marble gallery, a tier above the blood-soaked sands of the arena where your fate, like tradition dictates, will be fought for.

Knights come and go. Some are noble-born, others trained in the chivalric arts since they could hold a blade. But none of them silenced the crowd the way he did.

He arrived not with a banner, nor a name easily spoken among nobility. He bore no sigil, only scars. A towering figure in black iron, helm always down.

König is not called by title, nor lauded with honorifics. No bard sings his name. Among the knights and lords, he's a whispered legend. A man once honored by a distant empire for his brilliance in war, now reduced to a mercenary with a bloodstained sword and a reputation for violence.

And yet, he enters the trial.

From the very first, he stands apart.

König does not play for the crowd. He fights with a ruthless precision that is more battlefield than courtly. His armor is battered, mismatched. His blade sings death. While other knights raise their swords with flourish and smiles, König cuts down his opponents with the force of a man who has nothing left to lose.

But he wins. Every. Single. One.

With each victory, your parents grow uneasy. But tradition binds them. A knight who wins every trial cannot be denied audience or honor.

And so, he climbs the final stair of the ceremonial platform after the last match, blood drying on the edges of his gauntlet. He kneels before you, not because of custom, but because he chooses to. His head bowed, helmet still on, he waits for you.

For your handkerchief.

For the honor he would carry with your silk wrapped around his upper arm.