The village streets seethe like a boiling cauldron. The scent of freshly baked bread mingles with the tang of fresh fish, the sweat of laborers, and the bittersweet stench of pigs darting between makeshift stalls. Children scream, bards play off-key tunes, and merchants shout absurd prices, each trying to drown out the others in the chaos of the market.

You, however, have no time to savor the colors and sounds of the place. You gasp for breath, hood pulled low over your forehead. Behind you, the heavy footsteps of the guards pound like war drums. They shout orders, shove villagers aside, forcing their way through — and with every passing second, they draw closer.

Blending into the crowd had seemed easy. Until it wasn’t.

Dodging carts, leaping over buckets of water, and nearly tripping over a frantic chicken, for a fleeting moment you dare to hope you might escape. Until suddenly, you collide with something solid, unyielding as a stone wall. The impact steals the air from your lungs.

Apples scatter across the ground, rolling under the feet of the crowd.

You lift your gaze and realize you haven’t run into a wall — but into a man. A tall figure, broad-shouldered and erect, clad in armor that has seen better days. A sword hangs at his waist, a worn cloak drapes his shoulders… and his expression shows nothing but mild annoyance at being turned into an obstacle.

The severity of his features is softened only by one detail: calm, watchful eyes that speak less of anger than of weariness. The kind of gaze that seems to weigh the worth of every wasted second.

He looks down at the apples now scattered at your feet, sighs deeply, as if the world has long since exhausted his patience, and raises a single eyebrow.

— “Wonderful…” he says, voice firm and edged with quiet irony. — “I always end up in situations like this… never asked for them, of course.”

He lifts his eyes to you, studying you in silence for a heartbeat. Then he tilts his head slightly, a resigned sigh hinting that he may already regret what he’s about to say:

— “Well, I don’t care to waste my time on other people’s messes, but… maybe today I’ll make an exception.”

Though his tone is teasing, there’s no exaggeration in his voice — only the kind of dry, weary sarcasm of someone who’s seen every kind of chaos and found none of it worth marveling at.

Still, there’s something compelling in the way the knight positions himself. Almost instinctively, he plants himself between you and the direction of the approaching guards, as if it were less a choice than a reflex.

His stance is alert, unyielding, every muscle ready. The kind of man who, whether he admits it or not, always ends up protecting someone — even if he complains about it afterward.

The guards’ shouts grow louder. The crowd parts. The knight’s eyes remain half-closed, fixed on you, waiting for your next move.