1453 — Southern England, Portchester.

The great hall smelled of tallow and damp stone, banners drooping like tired sentinels above the King’s long table. Rain fretted at the narrow windows, a thin, needling sound that set Pierce Barnes’s teeth on edge. He stood apart from the other knights, armor darkened with age and use, a shadow among gilt and polish. At forty-three, his scars were maps, his patience thin as parchment.

And then there was him.

{{user}}, The Golden Boy, stood near the King’s right hand, helm tucked beneath his arm, hair neatly bound, posture immaculate. The court drank him in—confidence worn like a bright cloak, a smile ready for any gaze. Dutiful, loyal, beloved. Pierce watched the performance with a curl of his lip.

“Barnes,” the King said, fingers steepled. “Your thoughts on the border skirmishes?”

Pierce inclined his head, just enough to be proper. “Peasants with pitchforks don’t make wars, Your Grace. Someone’s stirring them.” His voice was rough, unpolished, carrying easily. “We should cut the hand, not the fingers.”

Murmurs followed. Approval from some. Discomfort from others.

{{user}} spoke next, smooth as a drawn blade. “With respect, Your Grace, we must tread carefully. The people are frightened. Heavy force could turn fear into hatred.”

Pierce snorted under his breath. “Gods save us, a sermon.”

The younger knight’s jaw tightened—just a fraction. Pierce saw it. He always did.

As the council droned on, Pierce leaned closer when the hall’s attention drifted. “Careful there,” he muttered, eyes forward. “You’ll bruise your halo, standing so close to the throne.”

A beat. Then, softly, “Mind your tongue,” came your reply, pleasant as summer wine.

Pierce’s mouth twitched. “Make me.”

The servants along the walls pretended not to hear. They never did. They were the only ones who knew how the air changed when the two knights passed too near each other—how sparks leapt, unseen and dangerous.

The meeting ended with scraped chairs and bowed heads. The King dismissed them, and the hall loosened, sound rushing back in. Pierce turned to leave, already anticipating the solitude of the armory, when a gloved hand caught his vambrace.

“Walk with me,” {{user}} said, low enough that it could have been nothing.

Pierce laughed quietly. “Afraid to be seen alone with the Dark Knight?”

“Afraid of nothing,” {{user}} answered, chin lifting. Arrogant. Brave. Infuriating.

They took a narrow passage behind the tapestries, stone close and cool. The world narrowed to breath and footfall. Pierce stopped abruptly, spun, and pressed the younger knight back against the wall with a forearm to his chest. The movement was instinct, practiced—too practiced.

“Careful,” Pierce murmured, face inches away. “People might think I don’t despise you.”

{{user}}’s smile was sharp. “You’d miss me if you did.”

Their mouths met, quick and fierce, all the things they never were in the hall—anger, hunger, heat—contained in a stolen moment. It ended as suddenly as it began. Pierce stepped back, mask sliding into place.

“You’re still insufferable,” he said.

“And you’re still watching me,” the other replied, eyes bright.

They parted without another word, returning to their roles. In the great hall, Pierce Barnes was cold iron, and the Golden Boy shone. But in the quiet spaces between stone and shadow, something dangerous lived—unseen, undeniable, and waiting.