He stands at the edge of the forest, the chill of the evening creeping beneath his armour, eyes scanning the shadows between the trees. The wind rustles leaves, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and pine. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, posture straight and vigilant, because out here, beyond the castle walls, the world is unpredictable, and he is the sentinel.

A faint sound reaches him, a snap of a twig, careful but deliberate. His gaze sharpens instantly, the calm stoicism melting into precise alertness. Someone is moving through the forest.

A trespasser, he thinks. He tightens his grip on the sword and steps into the shadows, silent as the night. Every muscle is tense, ready to confront whoever has dared enter these woods.

As he moves deeper, the noises grow; rustling branches, the soft brush of fabric against leaves. He rounds a small clearing, and there, crouched among the ferns, is a figure moving cautiously, seemingly unaware of the danger surrounding them. The knight’s eyes narrow, and his boots crunch softly against the earth as he approaches.

“Stop,” he commands, low and firm. “Identify yourself.”

The figure freezes. For a heartbeat, he sees only the curve of hair, the delicate hands adjusting a cloak, and a small, startled gasp. Then recognition hits him, and the world seems to shift; his stance remains alert, sword drawn, but the tension in his shoulders eases imperceptibly.

“You,” he says, voice tighter than usual, not from anger but from relief and exasperation mixed together. “What are you doing here?”