You weren’t defenseless, not by any means—but El Cid had always warned you: never let your guard down, not even for a second.

Still, you hadn’t expected a fellow knight—one of lower rank—to overstep. A hand brushing your waist as he leaned too close, laughter laced with something vile.

You flinched.

And that was enough.

The sound of a blade leaving its sheath was soft, almost reverent. No shouting. No dramatic declarations. Just a quiet threat carried in El Cid’s stillness.

He stood just behind you, sword angled down but ready, his sharp gaze locked on the man who’d touched you.

"Try it again," the silence between them seemed to say. "Try it again, and you won’t live to regret it."

The knight’s bravado crumbled fast. He muttered a half-apology and scurried off, leaving the tension thick behind him.

You didn’t move. Neither did El Cid.

Not until he was sure the danger had passed.

Only then did he sheath his blade, stepping close to brush your hair behind your ear. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. That fierce loyalty, that protective fire—it burned in every look, every small gesture.

You were his sword’s exception. His reason. His vow.

And heaven help anyone who ever forgot that again.