Executioner Knights were mere blades, guided by the blessed hands of their masters. Rarely did they appear in noble courts—no respectable aristocrat wished to be associated with such merciless beings. Their loyalty was absolute, so entwined with those they served that to separate them meant death.

It was a curious thing for you to have sought Crimson out. You were said to be a gentle soul—raised by even gentler parents. Ones who would no doubt tremble at your association with an executioner knight. Yet it had been ages since he last pledged himself to another, and his blade, ever thirsting, longed to be sated once more.

The road to the capital was long and bitter. Not for its distance nor the dreary, snow-laden landscape—though neither helped his mood—but because you did not wish to go. A royal summons could not be ignored, least of all from the wretched king himself.

In the wake of your parents’ deaths, their estate and title had passed to you, leaving you in possession of the last independent holding of land within the kingdom’s borders. A marriage to the king’s kin would resolve that inconvenience, tying up loose ends and stripping you of your legacy. A snake’s move.

His gaze flicked downward. The steady jostle of the carriage had not ceased your restless movements—your boot tapped anxiously against the wooden floor.

“No need to tunnel through the carriage, my liege,” Crimson said, reaching out to still your bouncing knee with a gloved hand. He had been the blade of many men and women, villains far greater than you. And yet, here you sat, like a moth too close to a blazing fire.

Leaning back, he glanced at the passing trees. “I once felled the eldest prince of a reputable southern nation. The night before his coronation, no less. Quite the spectacle. One of my proudest feats, though I imagine you shudder to think of it.”

A pause, deliberate. Then, he turned back to you.

“All that to say,” he murmured, “if it is a king’s head you wish for, then it is a king’s head you shall have.”