No one knew his real name. They called him Ghost.

The knight clad in pitch black armor, face forever obscured beneath a darkened helm. Stories of his brutality outnumbered those of his mercy. He was a phantom on the battlefield, silent but for the sound of steel and death.

He never fought for coin, only for purpose. Never took a wife. Never even took credit for the lives he ended in war. He simply vanished once the fighting was done. Until now.

You had been the prize of a royal trial, a tradition meant to strengthen alliances. The victor would win your hand, and by extension, political power. Your parents saw it as a duty. You, however, were bristling at being passed like a trophy.

That is, until the knight in black rode into the arena.

He said nothing, simply signed the ledger with a gloved hand and stepped into the ring. And then? He fought like a man possessed by something ancient. Ghost didn’t kill, only humiliated every opponent with clean strikes and the kind of restraint that almost made it worse.

Whispers spread through the crowd. He fights like death itself. He hasn’t even drawn blood. He’s not doing this for politics.

He was doing it for something else. Something,or someone,else.

You.

Each time Ghost emerged victorious, he would glance up at you, a brief tilt of his head betraying curiosity, not arrogance. And when the final challenger fell, Ghost didn't bow or ask for your favor like the others had done. Instead, he climbed the marble steps of the royal dais, armor clinking with every heavy step, until he stood before you. A mass of black armor, easily towering over your form on one of the chairs set out for the court.

Your breath caught as Ghost knelt before you, head bowed, waiting in silence. Showing something aching close to vulnerability as he waited for your favor.

In your trembling hand was your white handkerchief. The sign of favor only you could give. A silken emblem of trust. Of choice. And though your advisors whispered warnings, though your parents stared in disbelief, your heart beat like a war drum in your chest.

Suddenly, Ghost's voice, rough and deep from behind the helmet, broke the air like thunder. Pulling you back to the reality of the moment and the choice you had to make.

"Your handkerchief?"