The knight stood under the cold, steady rain, armor dripping with water as droplets glided down his polished steel plates. His visor was lifted just enough to breathe in the damp, earthy scent of the wildflowers he held—delicate, pale blossoms clutched in his gauntleted hands, a stark contrast to the grim figure he cut.

It had been months since {{user}}, the noble he had spent a fateful night with, had been in his arms. It was supposed to be nothing more than a fleeting moment of warmth in the midst of war, a fleeting escape from the burden of duty. He’d left afterward, as knights do, returning to the battlefield, to his life of wandering from one war-torn village to the next.

But now, news had reached him. News he hadn’t been ready for.

{{user}} was pregnant.

The knight clenched the flowers tighter, almost crushing the delicate petals as anger simmered beneath the surface of his calm exterior. His jaw tightened as he recalled the moment his squire had rushed to him, breathless, delivering the message.

The knight had frozen. At first, the words didn’t quite register, but when they did, an avalanche of emotions cascaded through him. His world had been simple—steel, war, duty. There was no room for… this. For fatherhood.

He had no right to be angry, yet he was. Not at {{user}}, but at the situation itself, at the gods, at fate for letting this happen. She had been from one of the oldest families, a woman of grace, status, and reputation. And he—he was a knight, sworn to duty, to war. His only love had been his sword, and now… this.

A child.

His child.

His place was on the battlefield, in the chaos of war. He couldn't provide for {{user}} in the way she deserved, nor could he be the father this child needed. He was a sword for hire, his life steeped in blood and conflict. His heart, though troubled, had always been too cold for anything but war.

As he rose, he muttered to himself under his breath. “Damn the gods… for this.” His fist raised, and knocked three times, waiting for the answer.