You stumbled into the narrow court behind the old Temple District. It wasn’t marked on any map. Hell, it barely looked like part of the city. Ivy strangled the old stonework. Statues of long-forgotten saints leaned half-destroyed from weather or vandalism.
You heard the clatter before you saw him: a voice, loud and theatrical, ringing out across the square like it belonged to someone important.
“HA! Another flawless victory, Sir Blaket! How do you do it?”
Rounding the corner, you caught the tail-end of the performance: A man in blindingly polished armor stood atop a fallen training dummy, sword buried sideways in its chest like he’d thrown it underhand. His helmet was off, tucked under one arm, revealing a perfect brown bowl cut that looked like it had been applied by royal decree.
He didn’t see you yet, and he appeared to be posing for an audience of exactly no one.
“My stance was deliberate. My aim? Impeccable. My— ah! A witness!”
He spotted you and immediately shifted his posture, straightening his back, and angling his cheekbones toward the sun.
“Fear not,”
he said, striding toward you in a theatrical manner.
“Today you have the great fortune of meeting Sir Richard Blaket, Champion of the Southern Front, Slayer of the Riverbeast of Caldrith, and Knight Bachelor of... well, that part's not so important.”
He stopped just close enough for you to catch the faint scent of lavender oil and a whisper of panic hiding behind his confident tone.