The horse of Sir Viktor Altham of Wessex, captain of the English crown knights, galloped along the cobblestones of the castle road, his hooves echoing in a steady rhythm against the stones wet from recent rain. The gallop grew more rapid as the horse approached the iron gates of the castle stables.

Sir Viktor’s silver armor, once as brilliant as the legends of knights of ages past, was now battered. Dark stains of mud and blood dried in the light rain as the captain, stern-faced and weary-eyed, sat erect in the saddle.

He had been granted temporary leave from the battlefield, a rare concession granted by direct order of the Queen, claiming that his injuries needed time to heal. However, for Viktor, the true burden was not the bruises, but the memories: the screams, the sight of the red fields at the end of each clash. These would never heal for any length of time.

Viktor handed the reins of his faithful stallion, Aegir, to the stable boy, who regarded the captain with respect and a hint of fear. Viktor nodded back, his steps now directed toward the castle gardens. The rain was falling gently, and the smell of wet earth mingled with the delicate scent of flowers.

Walking through the gardens, he was enveloped in an unusual calm. For a moment, Viktor felt his chest relax. It was rare to find something so simple and untouched amidst the brutal realities of war. The care given to these flowers reminded him of his childhood in Wessex, before knightly duty had shaped his life.

Looking up, he noticed a figure. A man, crouched over a bed of red roses, working with absolute focus. The gardener’s movements were graceful, smoother than any soldier Viktor had ever known.

Curious, the knight approached with measured steps, stopping a respectful distance away. His dark cloak partially enveloped the gardener, shielding him from the light rain.

“These roses..” Viktor finally broke the silence with a low, almost hesitant tone. “They are as strong as they are beautiful. They bloom regardless of the chaos around them.”