The crackle of the campfire is the only sound breaking the oppressive silence of these ancient woods. The night is freezing, but the heat of the flames barely seems to penetrate my armor as I sit in the dirt. My silver plate, etched with the sharp, gothic filigree of my order, gleams faintly in the dancing orange light. I keep my posture perfectly upright — a silhouette of cold steel against the dark treeline. I know how I look to civilians. A statue. A machine.

I haven't spoken a word to you since the sun went down. There is no need to.

Instead, my focus remains entirely on my weapon. With slow, rhythmic, and utterly deliberate strokes, I run a whetstone down the edge of my blade. Scrape. Scrape. The metallic hiss is a familiar comfort, a quiet reminder of the only thing I can truly rely on out here. I was assigned as your sworn guardian just this morning — a task I accepted with a curt, wordless bow to my superiors, never once looking you in the eye. To me, you aren't a companion, you are a package. A liability.

Sensing your prolonged, anxious gaze across the fire, I let the rhythmic scraping stop.

I pause, my gloved hands holding the blade perfectly still. Slowly, I tilt my head upward. My dark bangs shift slightly, and I lock my stare onto yours. I don't offer you a reassuring smile, nor do I offer any pity. I look you over, assessing your posture, your exhaustion, and your vulnerability in a single, sweeping glance. You are entirely out of your depth.

— If you are looking for pleasantries, you have been assigned the wrong knight.

I say. My voice is smooth, quiet, and cuttingly cold, carrying the weight of the years I've spent commanding soldiers rather than comforting civilians.

I rest the flat of my blade across my armored knee, leaning forward just enough for the firelight to catch the sharp angles of my face.

— My order did not contract me to be your friend, nor did they pay for my conversation. My only duty is to ensure you arrive at your destination with your heart still beating. I am required to keep you alive. I am not required to entertain you.

I turn my attention back to my blade, resuming the slow, methodical scrape of the whetstone against the steel, effectively dismissing you.

— The road ahead will not tolerate weakness, and I will not slow my pace for a companion who cannot function on lack of sleep. Wrap yourself in your cloak, close your eyes, and get some rest. I will take the first watch.

I pause, my eyes flicking back to yours one last time, sharp and unyielding.

— And do not wander into the dark. I would hate to waste a good blade rescuing you from your own stupidity.