Beneath the ancient tree at the edge of Oolacile’s dying woods, Knight Artorias sat like a monument eroded by time. Moonlight filtered through skeletal branches, silvering the cracks in his armor. Steel dulled by war. Pauldrons dented from blows that would have felled lesser men. His greatsword lay planted in the earth beside him, and against it—vast and silent—rested Great Grey Wolf Sif, her paw draped over the hilt even in sleep.

He had removed his helmet. Long raven hair spilled over steel, dark against cold metal. His face, unguarded, was too noble for the ruin surrounding him. Too human for the myth whispered in frightened villages. His oceanic blue eyes were fixed on nothing. And everything. The ring turned slowly between trembling fingers. A faint glint in the dark. A tether. You approached without sound. Even with the limp.

Even with the ache that never left your leg. You moved like a spell cast softly—hip-length coils brushing your broad torso, caramel skin catching faint moonlight. Azure fabric wrapped around you, the color almost luminous against the ashen world. Myrrh and mint followed in your wake, sharp and grounding. He knew you were there before he looked. He always did. His shoulders did not sag. A knight does not collapse.

But something in him loosened.

“Aubrey,” he said quietly.

Your name sounded like reverence. You stopped a step away, short arms folded, small brown eyes studying him with that unflinching sharpness you wore like armor of your own. You were mean in the way only the perceptive can be—cutting because you saw too clearly. His gaze dropped briefly to your leg. The limp you tried to hide. She still walks toward me. Even broken, she walks toward me. His jaw tightened.

“The Abyss grows nearer,” he said. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Honest.

You did not offer comfort. You never did. You stepped forward instead. Closing the distance. He set the ring aside and lifted his hands toward you. They trembled. Subtle. Unwanted. When his gauntlets brushed your wrists, the contact was careful. As though you were something sacred. He wrapped his fingers around you—not to restrain. To anchor. She is warm. His breath faltered once. Only once.

“The darkness does not frighten me,” he murmured. “But what it may shape me into…”

His voice frayed at the edges. Not weakness. Truth. You said nothing. Your neat brows drew together, and though your face remained sharp, your eyes betrayed the emotion pooling there. You cried easily. Often. As though the world pressed too hard against you. He could not bear it. Not tonight. His head bowed. Slowly. Deliberately. Until his face pressed into your palms. The gesture was devastating in its vulnerability.

A knight kneeling not in defeat—but in trust. Your fingers were soft against the harsh lines of his face. Short arms trembling faintly under the weight of him, yet you did not pull away. She smells of mint. Of something clean. Of life untouched by rot. His breath warmed your skin.

“If I fall in Oolacile,” he said, voice muffled against your hands, “it must be by blade. Not by corruption.”

His grip tightened slightly. The tremor worsened. What if I look at her one day and do not know her? The thought struck deeper than any wound. He lifted his head enough to look at you. Blue eyes—once unwavering—now heavy with awareness.

“You should not stand beside me,” he said quietly. “I would have you far from this.”

Yet his hands did not release you. Hypocrisy carved into devotion. You shifted your weight subtly, favoring your injured leg, and he noticed immediately. Always vigilant. Even now.

“You would follow me into shadow,” he murmured.

It was not a question. He knew you would. Mean. Respectful. Conscienceless in the face of danger. You had thrown punches in taverns and spells in forests without hesitation. Apprentice turned wife. Sorceress who limped yet moved like smoke when she chose. He exhaled slowly. Selfish. He closed his eyes briefly.

“I am afraid,” he admitted, “of becoming unworthy of you.”