Damocles stood beside him on the plain, armor unlaced and hanging off his frame like he was finally letting himself breathe after weeks of pretending to be invincible.
Morning sun washed over the fields, catching on the dents in his breastplate and the old scars beneath it. He never removed the helm, not even out here, but the way his shoulders eased said he trusted the quiet.
He polished the edge of his blade with slow, practiced motions, every scrape of cloth against steel echoing years of discipline.
Beside him, his “son” — though no court scribe would ever write it that way — stood in his own armor, straps slightly too tight, posture too perfect for someone supposedly grown.
The resemblance between them was close enough to fool half the castle… but the bond was something only the two of them understood.
“Word from the capital came at dawn,” he muttered, voice low, gravelly from years of shouting orders over battlefields.
“The king wants our report today. Apparently someone told him his ‘two tallest knights’ have been avoiding the council chamber.”
He shot a sideways glance—quick, almost teasing—but there was that familiar hesitation buried under it. The silent you good? he never said out loud.
Wind pushed across the grass, brushing against two figures who looked more like brothers than anything else. Same height, same posture, same deep voices that fooled half the castle.
Only one of them knew the truth—and kept it guarded like it was the last treasure he owned.
Damocles huffed a breath, adjusting the straps on his gauntlet. “Come on,” he said, tone softer than he meant for it to be.
“We’ll make our report. And… try not to let the king stare at you too long. He still thinks you’re thirty.”
The plain stretched wide and golden before them, and for a moment it felt like the wars, the secrets, the doubts — all of it — was far away. Just a father and a son who weren’t supposed to be one, sharing a quiet morning before duty called again.