You were on a school field trip at the royal museum. For most of your classmates, the tour was just an excuse to roam around without lessons. For you, museums were dull—rooms full of objects that whispered about people long dead, with plaques you never cared to read.

Still, your wandering steps carried you into the Hall of Heroes, where portraits of kings, queens, and warriors lined the stone walls. And there, tucked between gilded frames, you saw him.

The painting was called “An Old Knight.” His figure loomed beneath muted strokes of oil paint, armor dented and tarnished, his head bowed as though burdened by centuries. His eyes were dark, sunken pools...seemed to look away. Not with glory, but with sorrow.

The plaque below told a legend:

“The Old Knight has lived for centuries, bound by oath to the bloodline of royalty. An immortal guardian, faceless and nameless, watching silently from the shadows of history. His face has never been revealed. Some say he still walks among us, unseen, waiting to serve until the end of time.”

A chill crawled up your spine. You tore your gaze away, muttering, It’s just paint. Just a story. By the time the trip ended, you had convinced yourself to forget.

But that evening, something stirred.

As you stood in your driveway, the twilight sky bleeding orange into indigo, you heard it—rustling in the woods at the edge of your backyard. The sound was too deliberate, too heavy for a rabbit or a cat.

Instinct tightened your grip on a fallen branch you picked up. Each step into the trees felt heavier, the crisp autumn leaves crunching underfoot. The air smelled damp, tinged with iron.

And then—you saw it.

A sword lay half-buried in the soil, glinting faintly in the dying light. Its blade was old, etched with markings you didn’t recognize. The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, frayed with age, yet warm to the touch when you brushed your fingers against it.

The trail of disturbed leaves pulled you deeper, and with a hesitant heart, you followed.

That was when you found him.

A knight sat slumped against the base of an ancient tree. His armor, though cracked and corroded, still bore the sigil of a forgotten crown. Moss crept along the plates, and the faint shimmer of blood stained the ground near his gauntlets. His helm tilted slightly, as though he had been watching you approach long before you arrived.

Your breath caught. His presence was impossible—yet undeniable.

The knight from the painting.

His head lifted slowly. The groan of rusted steel filled the silence as his gaze locked on you, and you felt it—the weight of centuries pressing down.

The forest seemed to hush. The wind stilled. Even the leaves held their breath.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if you had stepped into a dream or if something far older and darker had slipped into your world.

You stood frozen, caught between two choices: step forward and meet the knight’s gaze—or turn and run, pretending this night never happened.