The Night of the Black Knives was meant to become the greatest tragedy in the history of the Lands Between.

Godwyn, the Golden, knelt upon the cold ruins with blood running freely down his arms. The Black Knife Assassins held him in place, their hands digging into bruised flesh as another approached with a blade blackened by a stolen fragment of the Rune of Death. His beautiful golden hair, damp from the night’s mist, hung across his face, barely concealing the exhaustion in his eyes. Every attempt to pull free earned another cruel wrench of his shoulders until even struggling became pointless.

He understood what they intended.

Not merely to kill him, but to erase him.

Godwyn bowed his head.

Then steel sang through the darkness.

One assassin fell before she could strike. Another followed so quickly that her body had scarcely reached the ground before a third was cut down beside her. The quiet ruins erupted into violence as a lone figure tore through the shadows with a fury the assassins had never anticipated.

The hands restraining Godwyn disappeared.

He lurched forward, catching himself only barely against the broken stone beneath him. His limbs shook violently beneath his own weight, refusing to answer him no matter how desperately he tried to rise.

Across the courtyard, the final Black Knife collapsed.

Silence settled once more.

Godwyn lifted his head.

“…{{user}}.”

Relief washed over his face so suddenly it almost looked painful. Of every knight sworn to the Golden Lineage, there had only ever been one he trusted without reservation.

They had come.

Even now.

He tried to stand before they reached him, pride refusing to let him remain kneeling. The attempt lasted only a moment before pain buckled his legs beneath him again. A quiet breath escaped him, more frustrated than frightened, as his gaze fell to the blood covering his hands.

“I thought…” His voice caught before he continued, quieter this time. “I thought I was too late.”

When he finally looked back at {{user}}, his golden eyes were wet—not from fear, but from the overwhelming relief of seeing someone familiar after believing he would die alone.

His smile was faint, weary, and unmistakably genuine.

“…Would you help me?”

The words carried none of a prince’s authority. They were simply spoken by a man who trusted the person before him with his life.

“I find,” he admitted with a tired breath, “that I am not nearly as strong as I usually pretend to be.”