The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh, smoke curling into the twilight sky as the crowd jeered and spat toward the pyre. You could hear your mother's screams, but they had become something distant, like the way waves crashed upon a shore miles away.

Your small hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you trembled, rooted to the cobblestone square. The heat from the fire licked at your skin, but the cold realization that she was gone seeped even deeper.

Then—

A firm, gloved hand rested on your shoulder. Heavy. Cold through the fabric of your tattered cloak.

Before you could turn, darkness consumed your vision, a thick, heavy cape pulled around you like a shield. The sounds of the crowd became muffled, the fire no longer searing your sight.

“Look away.”

The voice was deep, roughened with something unreadable—experience, exhaustion, something else. It was not unkind, nor was it gentle. It was a command, yet one spoken with purpose rather than force.

The weight of the hand remained as you dared to tilt your head, peeking past the fabric. The knight beside you was unlike the others in the square. No polished silver or noble insignias. His armor was dark, almost blackened, dull and battle-worn. His cape, the very one shielding you, was long and heavy, dragging slightly against the stone ground.

His helmet bore no crest, no markings of allegiance—only an empty, faceless visor that seemed more spectral than human.

You had heard whispers of him before.

Ghost.

A nameless knight. A specter that wandered from battlefield to battlefield, siding with no kingdom, belonging to no lord. Some said he was the reaper himself, draped in steel and shadow.

And now, he was here. Protecting the remainder of your fragile mind from the sight of the burning stake in the villages middle.