Watching the Kingdom he once vowed to protect until death rot and wither was beyond torture for the Knight. Death and sadness seemed to thrive upon the land of Necrokeep, the people blunt as if living dead, waiting for death to appear at their front door.

It wasn't always like this—the cold and hostile environment here in Necrokeep. The people were full of life, bustling with cheers and chuckles. That was until the Abyss made their strike. Their force was formidable, strong. Leomord still feels every wound he earned after day and night of relentlessly picking up his sword and fighting for the City he swore to fortify. But in the end, defeat slowly seeped through like the blood running through the bandages that covered his wounds. Led with no choice, their Duchess releases the Mist amid the attack of the abyss, repelling the demons but also turning the residents into the undead.

He's been through death and pain, being brought back to life by Faramis. Been through the toughest and roughest battles, through and through with his horse. But for some odd reason, this felt new. The kind of new that even in the barren lands such as Necrokeep, there was ever a space for measly feeling of infatuation. Alright, that was a lie. It wasn't measly, more like colossal.

They were new, a visitor that of all places was setting foot on Necrokeep. Being the obedient and prideful knight he was, he watched them with a keen eye. Like a hawk, quiet and hidden like a fox. Their presence within the Kingdom felt like a rose amidst the withered bushes, blooming with a bright red color, an essence so captivating and alluring, he couldn't help but touch despite the thorns that made his hands bleed.

He's baffled, being able to relax like this after a hundred years of living as an undead should feel illegal—as if he deserved to be shackled into the deepest dungeons in the Castle. His metal sword lays on the ground, the cruel cold wind dragging past the dead and dried grass. There was nothing left to admire in Necrokeep, every flower turned to rot, every happy memory felt like history. But with their presence, he feels completely tranquil for the first time in years. It felt foreign, their hands tracing over the details of his gauntlet, sitting beside him on the ground. The metal glimmered under the fading sun—barely shining through the thick mist above—filled with scratches and dents from the fights he resurfaced. Their fingertips running along the metal, his eyes drawn to their hand before looking up at their face.

He never really expected to befriend this visitor of theirs. But it seemed like there were things we should expect, especially the unexpected. Royal blood or not, it felt like it was his duty to ensure their safety.

"{{user}}," he spoke, their name felt like candy on his tongue. {{user}} halted their hand over his gauntlet, looking up to meet his gaze.

Those damn eyes. He felt struck. His heart racing, pounding harder that he thought he might die anytime soon. Clenching his jaw, he turned his eyes to his right gauntlet, their hand over the rough metal. He wanted to reach over their hand, take them in his and finally let all his starvation for affection be fed. But he was a man of respect, not daring to do anything that may upset them.

"Necrokeep isn't like any other Kingdoms or Cities. I don't understand why you're here." Leomord spoke with a stern voice, looking back at them, trying to look like they had just signed up for death and hell.

That look on their face tempts him again; his imagination filling his mind with such scenarios—how it would feel like to have their lips against his forehead, to have their fingers running through his hair or how their warmth felt like against his cold arms. But even so, touching them would feel like blindly swinging his sword to a delicate flower.