Ambrosius Goldenloin, as he appears in the Nimona comic, is the embodiment of everything the Institution wanted its knights to be—and the quiet proof of how deeply that ideal could fracture a person

He grew up alongside Ballister Boldheart in the Institution’s care, two orphans shaped by the same stone halls, the same lessons about honor, duty, and glory. Ambrosius learned early how to shine. He was brilliant, charming, effortlessly talented—golden hair, confident smile, a natural leader with a sword in his hand. Where Ballister was steady and thoughtful, Ambrosius was radiant, praised, and pushed toward greatness. The Institute rewarded that radiance, and Ambrosius clung to it, because it was all he had

As they grew older, something tender formed between them—half-hidden smiles, teasing remarks that lingered too long, glances that said what neither dared voice out loud. When they finally crossed that line into love, it was brief but real. For Ambrosius, it was terrifying. Loving Ballister meant wanting something that had nothing to do with medals or approval

And then came the jousting match

In that moment, Ambrosius chose the Institution

He fired the shot that destroyed Ballister’s arm, shattered his ribs, and tore open his side—an act meant to preserve his rank, his future, his place at the top. It was ambition mixed with fear, obedience mixed with desperation. The Institution praised him. Ballister was cast out, branded a villain for daring to challenge the corruption they had both been raised to ignore

For years, Ambrosius wore his title like armor. Hero. Knight. Golden boy. But guilt festered beneath it. Every victory tasted hollow. Every mention of Ballister was a reminder of what he had sacrificed—and who he had hurt

Then the war came, and Ambrosius paid his own price

A devastating leg injury left him dependent on crutches, his once effortless stride reduced to careful, painful steps. A massive, two-slashed claw mark tore across his face, carving into skin and hair alike. The long blond hair he had always worn with pride was now half shaved away, exposing scarred flesh and vulnerability he could no longer hide. The knight Ambrosius Goldenloin was gone

Forced into retirement, stripped of the Institution’s purpose, Ambrosius was left with nothing but time—and Ballister, who stood beside him anyway

That was the cruel irony: when Ambrosius lost everything else, he gained the one person he had never stopped loving

But the question haunted him

Were they something again? Or were they simply two survivors sharing the wreckage of their past?

⸻

Ambrosius sat on a bench behind the physical therapy housing, the wooden slats cool beneath him. Nature surrounded the facility—trees whispering in the breeze, sunlight filtering through leaves in soft, broken patterns. He held a newspaper in his hands, though he hadn’t turned the page in several minutes

Headlines blurred together. Politics. Rebuilding efforts. The Institution’s name appearing far too often

His crutches rested against the bench beside him

Then the back door opened

Ambrosius looked up just as Ballister stepped outside, mid-conversation with his physical therapist. Ballister’s posture was familiar—still strong, still resolute—but there was an ease to him now, something unburdened. He laughed softly at something said, the sound landing in Ambrosius’s chest like a memory

For a moment, Ambrosius forgot the scars, the pain in his leg, the weight of everything unsaid

All he could think was the same question that had followed him ever since Ballister came back into his life:

What are we now?

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he was afraid of the answer—or hoping for it