“The unexamined life is not worth living.”

  Socrates

  It was less a funeral than an obligation. With no body for this wake and fewer than a dozen mourners in attendance, it felt more like a silent formality than a proper farewell. Most who came barely knew the man being honoured—old tutors and a few loyal servants. But one man stood apart, the only one who might have claimed to have truly known Galvahin Alderwyn.

  Or at least, had pretended to.

  Maeren Alderwyn, his father.

  A wealthy patriar, noble, and astute businessman, Maeren’s memories of his only son were fragmented—brief flashes of a life that, to him, had been wasted. Galvahin had always been a disappointment, chasing storybook heroics when the life of a noble called for restraint, order, and control. To Maeren, such dreams of knighthood and valour were not only foolish and unbecoming, but dangerous. He had seen enough of the world, enough of mankind’s true nature, to know that heroism was, at best, the naive fantasy of a child—and at worst, it was a lie wielded by the cunning to manipulate the innocent, a shining facade concealing ambition’s rot.

  But now, staring at the portrait surrounded by blue lilies, Maeren’s grief was poisoned by something deeper. It should have been a vindication, the proof that his son’s choices led exactly where he’d predicted: to ruin. Instead of satisfaction, however, Maeren felt only an ache, cold and hollow. His only child. Gone, like a whisper subsumed into the void.

  He remembered the moment he received the letter. His first instinct had been to scoff. A backwater farming village? The place was so obscure it didn’t even appear on most maps. That, at least, explained the silence—why Galvahin’s correspondence had trickled to nothing over the past year. He must have finally settled down there. Before then, the letters had come infrequently, each one a small window into his son’s increasingly aimless life.

  Maeren could always tell when Galvahin had failed. His letters spoke of unimpressive deeds—a wolf slain here, a mugger frightened off there. Half were padded with apologies and excuses, rambling explanations of how adventuring life didn’t pay the bills, always accompanied by requests for more money. Modest sums, never enough to seem greedy, as though the humility of the ask might soften the shame of needing it. Maeren always obliged, sending stipends without comment, never bothering to write back. It was disappointing, yes, but not surprising.

  Still, he supposed he should be grateful Galvahin hadn’t fallen into outright criminality. The image of his son—large and imposing as he was—shaking down shopkeepers or attempting to swindle someone was outright laughable. Maeren smirked at the memory of a much younger Galvahin, eyes red-brimmed and tearful, clutching one of his silly fairytale books.

  “She pretended to care for them—to feed them,” he’d said, voice trembling with restrained misery. “But really she just wanted to eat them! They were only kids… How could someone be so mean?”

  How naive he had been, how utterly unprepared for the world. Even then, Maeren had seen it—his son’s tender heart would be his undoing.

  Lost in the woods, the letter had said. A hunting trip Galvahin hadn’t returned from. The words were as sparse as they were final. Of course, they had searched—the villagers, rangers, even hired trackers—but the forest was vast, sprawling like a labyrinth with no promise of an exit. Days of walking would barely scratch the surface, and the deeper one ventured, the less familiar the terrain became.

  As the tendays stretched into a month, the truth became inescapable: Galvahin was gone. Even the most capable knight could vanish into the wilderness, swallowed by trees that watched like wordless adjudicators. Maeren could picture it all too clearly—his son, trudging through the underbrush, chasing a boar or stag that would never be found, a far cry from the heroics he preached. The great knight, reduced to a lost hunter, searching for glory in some forgotten hinterland village. A fool’s errand, just like all the others.

  The image of Galvahin alone in that endless forest clung to him like a shadow, dark and persistent. He wondered if, in those final moments—just as when he had clutched that foolish storybook, eyes wide and brimming with tears—his son had been afraid. Did he, alone and helpless under the canopy’s suffocating dark, weep when he realized his fate was sealed? The thought pressed against Maeren’s chest, sharp and unrelenting. A single tear escaped his otherwise stoic visage, tracing a cold line down his cheek.

  Did he think of me?

  Maeren stared at the portrait, the cleric’s muffled droning of “dearly beloved” and “we are gathered here today” fading into an indistinct hum. The painting captured a man with broad shoulders, dark, short, wavy hair and fair, sun-kissed skin. His jaw was strong and square, his brows straight and firm, framing eyes of stormy grey—the same shade his long departed mother had passed down to him. A scruffy beard softened the sharpness of his features, lending him a rugged, approachable charm.

  What stuck with Maeren the most, however, was the smile—small, subtle, but unmistakably warm. Unlike the stiff, imperious portraits of other nobles, this one was alive with its quiet sincerity. It was the kind of smile that spoke of a gentle heart, one that said: I’m here for you.

  He fidgeted his signet ring, the cold metal stinging against his pinkie in the crisp autumn air. The ring—a simple tool for stamping officiality into missives—bore the Alderwyn family crest: a leaping hare encircled by a wreath of wheat. The wheat, a symbol of prosperity, felt fitting enough for the Alderwyns, with their vast web of trade routes and carefully brokered alliances among houses and merchant guilds. The hare, however, struck as bitterly ironic. A widower with no siblings, now attending the funeral of his only heir, Maeren’s line was as far from a picture of fertility as a family could be.

  For a moment, Maeren considered whether Galvahin had found success in at least that one regard. There had never been a mention of a sweetheart in his letters, no inkling of someone who might’ve cared for him beyond polite obligation. It was not something Maeren had ever considered before—his son’s love life. Until then it seemed irrelevant. Hells, he hadn’t even given Galvahin the perfunctory “birds and bees” talk, leaving such awkward responsibilities to the hired hands of tutors and nannies. But now, standing at the precipice of Galvahin’s story, the sum of his son’s thirty-one years of life laid bare before him, the absence of someone special to weep over his loss struck Maeren as an unexpected sadness—another bitter irony in a tale already filled with them.

  It made him wonder, with an ache he couldn’t quite suppress, how many other ways he had failed to guide his son. How much of Galvahin’s upbringing had been quietly shifted onto the shoulders of others? Tutors, servants, bodyguards—faces Maeren could barely recall had done the work he was meant to do. And what had Galvahin received in return? The Alderwyn name, a trickle of gold, but little else. Blood, Maeren realized, was not the same as legacy. Without his own teaching, his own presence, could Galvahin truly be called his son?

  The thought settled in Maeren’s chest, heavy and unwelcome. It was a question he dared not answer—because the answer, he knew, would be far too unkind.

  The cleric’s obsequies droned on, blending with sounds of the wind whispering through the castle’s courtyard. Overhead, clouds had begun to gather in heavy layers, their shadows dimming the small assembly.

  Maeren’s gaze remained fixed on the portrait propped up against the empty casket, the blue lilies framing it already beginning to wilt. Galvahin’s faint, warm smile stared back at him, incongruous beneath the looming sky.

  A low growl of thunder rumbled across the horizon. No one moved, save for a few restless glances upward as the wind tugged at coats and scarves.

  Crack. A sharp boom broke the stillness. Louder this time, closer.

  Then, the first drop fell—soft and unassuming, it landed on Galvahin’s painted shoulder. It spread slowly, the blue smearing into a murky stain. A second drop followed, trailing down the painted cheek like a tear, streaking the storm-grey eyes until they blurred into nothingness.

  Maeren watched in silence as the rain quickly fell harder, streaking the soft smile into an unrecognizable haze. Around him, the mourners began to scatter, but he remained rooted in place, unmoving as the storm overtook them.

  Rain at a funeral, he thought. Just like one of your stupid storybooks.

  ? ? — ???? · ? · ???? — ? ?

  One month earlier.

  “I’m sorry Galvahin, truly, but I just can’t pay any more than that,” she said, shaking her head. “This grouse is so scrawny you can see its bones, my dear boy. Five copper is the best I can offer—and even that’s me being generous.”

  Galvahin sighed and leaned against the counter, his broad shoulders slumping slightly. For a moment, he appeared puzzled, his grey eyes flicking between the bagged fowl and the small pile of copper pieces she’d laid out.

  “Perhaps we could strike a trade?” he ventured, his deep baritone daubed with a hint of hope. “Did you get any more comfits this tenday?”

  Across from him the dwarven woman chuckled, her short silver hair glinting in the late evening sun. She had the warm, well-worn look of someone who had seen centuries of life, her wrinkled face and round cheeks lending her the air of a patient grandmother. Clad in a simple frock and apron, she seemed a humble fixture in the town market, her small stall modest but welcoming.

  “Comfits?” she said, raising a wiry brow. “A mighty big ask from someone bringing me a bird that looks like it died of embarrassment.”

  Her playful tone took the sting out of the words, but Galvahin winced nonetheless, running a calloused hand over the back of his neck with a nervous smile.

  The shopkeeper chuckled and hopped down from her stool, her movements surprisingly nimble for her age. From beneath the counter, she retrieved a small linen bag, its edges frayed from years of use. Turning back to him, she extended her hand expectantly. Galvahin handed over a small satchel of his own, his movement slow yet precise. She opened the linen bag, inspecting its contents briefly, before carefully pouring a modest handful of tiny, colourful confectioneries into his satchel.

  “There you go, lad,” she said, cinching the satchel with flair before handing it over. “Sweet enough to brighten your mood, I hope.” Her tone was light, but her shrewd eyes lingered on him, reading something deeper beneath his quiet stoicism.

  “Thank you,” Galvahin replied softly, tucking the little satchel away with care. He dipped into a polite bow, the worn steel of his pauldrons creaking slightly under the motion. The matte surface, dulled and scratched from years of use, bore the marks of numerous close calls. Rust traced the iron rivets, and his chest piece carried a dent near the left side—a silent testimony to a near-fatal blow.

  The glaive strapped across his back moved with him, its wooden haft smoothed by endless grips, the blade dulled but still carrying an edge of quiet menace. As Galvahin rose, the faint glint of steel caught the muted light, a subtle reminder of the armament’s lethality, contrasting sharply with the calm kindness of the man wielding it. The armour resettled with a soft clank as he straightened to full height, his frame large yet composed, exuding a quiet humility and an enduring strength.

  “It’s been a bad month, hasn’t it?” she said, her tone quieter now, free of the earlier banter. “The game in those woods, I mean. From what I’ve seen it’s been thin as fence posts. I’m surprised you’ve managed to bring in anything at all.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Galvahin admitted, his voice low. “The deer have been sparse, and the smaller game…” He paused, glancing at the grouse on the counter. “It’s not much.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said quickly. “That forest’s been stingier than a miser lately. Something about the air feels… wrong. Folks are saying it’s a bad omen.”

  Galvahin’s jaw tightened at that, his gaze drifting to the forest’s edge visible beyond the market stalls. The dark line of trees loomed in the distance, pitch black against the late evening sky. He thought of the hours he’d spent beneath those branches, the unsettling quiet that seemed to grow heavier the longer he lingered there.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said eventually, though his tone lacked conviction. His grey eyes remained fixed on the distant treetops. “A bear probably just moved in—scared all the deer away deeper into the woods.” His gaze returned back to the shopkeeper, a polite smile softening his stoicism. “In any case, I’ll manage. I’ve managed before.”

  “Aye, I suppose you have,” she said softly, though worry remained in her tone.

  They exchanged a few more pleasantries, their words polite, before Galvahin offered his thanks once more and took his leave. As he walked through the quiet village, he allowed himself one of the comfits, the sugary shell cracking between his teeth and dissolving into a burst of honey. The sun was beginning to fall below the horizon, painting the humble collection of timber and thatch homes in hues of gold and amber. Villagers bustled with the last chores of the day—hauling firewood, mending fences, and calling their children in from play. Some offered the knight brief nods or murmured greetings, their respect evident but touched with a quiet distance he had grown accustomed to.

  It wasn’t long before he reached the small shack he called home. The structure was modest, its wooden walls weathered but sturdy, the roof patched in places with uneven shingles. A small, neatly tended garden stretched out front, populated by a handful of vegetables and a few clusters of teal and violet wildflowers that had crept in over time. He paused at the gate, his solemn gaze lingering on the garden for a moment, a bitter pang tightening in his chest.

  It was a sign of permanence, of roots quietly taking hold despite himself. Galvahin had never intended to stay long, not in this village or any other, but the vegetable garden spoke otherwise. It communicated time spent, effort invested, and life settling into place before he could realize it. A far cry from the wandering knight he’d once pictured himself as.

  He pushed open the gate with a faint creak and stepped inside. The air around the garden was earthy and cool, carrying the faint scent of damp soil and thyme. His boots crunched softly against the gravel path as he approached the door, his crossbow shifting lightly against its holster.

  Inside, the shack looked as unassuming as its exterior: a small hearth for cooking, a narrow bed tucked into one corner, and a wooden table laden with tools about a half-mended piece of armour. A single window let in fading light, casting long shadows across the room. Galvahin set his satchel down carefully, the bag of comfits rattling faintly as he set it down.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Galvahin unstrapped his armour, the pieces clinking as he stacked them neatly on a wooden bench by the door. His glaive found its place in the nearby rack, the sharpened steel reflecting the light of the hearth. He hung his damp gambeson on a hook, blissfully sighing as the cool evening air mingled with his hirsute skin.

  Crossing to the water basin, he poured water from a nearby pitcher, the sound of the splash breaking the quiet. He scrubbed his face, neck, and arms, the coolness bracing but soothing as it rinsed away the sweat and grime clinging to him. The brief ritual left him feeling lighter, if only physically.

  Once clean, he turned his attention to the pot of stew simmering over the hearth, a meal he’d prepared the night before. He ladled a generous portion into a wooden bowl, adding a few pieces of salted jerky to the side for good measure.

  In the corner of his abode sat his modest bookshelf. Most of the backstop’s bore titles of fairytales—stories of gallant knights, enchanted woods, and impossible quests. Once, they had been a source of boundless inspiration; now, they felt like memories of a life he’d never truly claimed. Galvahin selected a familiar one, its cracked spine and dog-eared pages a testament to its decades as a quiet comfort.

  Settling onto the edge of the bed, he balanced the bowl on his lap and opened the book. The warmth of the hearth flickered across the room, and as he spooned the first bite of stew into his mouth, the familiar words of the tale began to carry him away.

  "Once upon a time, there lived a gallant knight known as Dame Ravelle. She was chivalrous, mighty, and above all else—beautiful. With armour that gleaned like a mirror, a sword that could cleave any foe, and hair long and illustrious, there wasn’t any threat the Lady of the Golden Carnation couldn’t face."

  Galvahin smirked, shaking his head. Beautiful? he thought, running a hand through his own greasy hair. His fingers snagged on a particularly stubborn tangle, and he sighed, his lips quirking in faint frustration. Washing it properly was a luxury he rarely had, and the thought made him scoff softly. “No way her hair was that bloody perfect,” he muttered, turning back to the story, chewing a bite of jerky as he let its familiar rhythm distract him from the realities of his own rougher edges.

  "That is, until one day, the wicked sorcerer Malvorius appeared before her, gleefully boasting of his latest vile deed: the kidnapping of Prince Gwyndan. To save the prince, she would first have to endure the perilous trials he had prepared."

  Galvahin’s lips curved into a subtle smile. The story was cliché, sure, but there was a charm in its simplicity. He’d always had a fondness for the more romantic fairytales, the ones where courage and love intertwined. And there was nothing more compelling to him than a rescue—a noble cause, a test of valour, and the promise of redemption wrapped into a single act.

  "Through the portal you go," he read aloud, his voice deepening into a dramatic, cackling imitation of Malvorious. "That is, if you have any hope of seeing your precious prince again!"

  Galvahin chuckled at his own theatrics before falling silent, his gaze drifting back to the page as he continued reading to himself.

  "The First Trial: Honour

  Dame Ravelle stepped into a dark and stifling cave, the air thick with the damp stone and decay. Shadows danced on the jagged walls, cast by an unseen, flickering flame. At the center of the chamber stood an ancient, gnarled pillar, its surface etched with cryptic runes. Bound to the pillar were four prisoners: a warrior, a healer, a merchant, and a beggar, their faces pale with fear.

  'Free only one, Dame Ravelle,' mocked Malvorious, his voice slithering through the shadows of the cavern unseen. 'Choose wisely, for the fate of the prince and your honour rests upon it!'

  The prisoners’ pleas reverberated through the chamber. The warrior’s voice rang with conviction as he proclaimed his duty to protect the weak. The healer spoke of countless lives she could save. The merchant argued she could create, while the beggar whimpered for redemption, his voice trembling in despair.

  Ravelle’s gauntleted hand brushed the hilt of her sword as she deliberated. The cavern seemed to close in around her with every breath. Finally, her gaze fell upon the warrior.

  'Evil must be fought, and the weak must be defended. His valour will serve the greater good.'"

  Galvahin cocked an eyebrow.

  "In that instant, the chains around the warrior shattered, and he rose, gratitude in his eyes. The other prisoners cried out in despair, their voices drowned out by Malvorious’s dark laughter.

  'A fine choice, Dame Ravelle,' he snickered. 'Do not let their faces haunt you. They were never meant to leave.”

  The healer, the merchant, and the beggar dissolved into shadows, their forms fading like mist. Ravelle’s grip tightened on her sword, but she remained silent.

  'Go,' Malvorious purred as a doorway of light split the darkness. 'Your next trial awaits. Prove your honour is more than illusion.'"

  Galvahin’s fingers tightened around the edges of the book, his eyes squinting as he reread the last passage. A fine choice, Malvorious had said. But was it? Valour was useful, yes, but only valour? The healer could have mended wounds, saved lives. The merchant might’ve brought resources. Even the beggar could’ve held untapped potential, but still further—none of them deserved their fate. Wasn’t honour about finding value where others didn’t? About making choices that served more than just the immediate need?

  He frowned, leaning back against the wall to take in a spoonful of stew. No one was meant to leave, the sorcerer had mocked as if the choice was a game. And perhaps it was. Ravelle hadn’t questioned it—she’d chosen the easiest answer. Would I have done the same? He wasn’t sure, but the thought left an uncomfortable knot in his chest as he turned to the next trial.

  "The Second Trial: Strength

  When Ravelle stepped through the portal, she found herself in a dense, foreboding forest. Shadows stretched long between the gnarled trees, and the air carried a low, hungry growl. A pack of wolves emerged, their glowing eyes fixed on the knight. The pack-leader stepped forward, its massive frame rippling with power, teeth bared in the slightest challenge.

  'Strength,' Malvorious’s voice taunted through the trees. 'Show it, or be devoured.'

  Ravelle raised her sword, steel gleaming in the faint light. The wolves lunged as one. She met them with sharp, calculated strikes, each blow felling a beast. The pack’s snarls and yelps filled the air, their fury relentless. Ravelle’s muscles burned as the fight dragged on, her armour staining with blood—both hers and the wolves’.

  Finally, the last wolf fell, its lifeless form crumbling at her feet. Ravelle leaned on her sword, breathing heavily, limbs trembling.

  'Well done,' Malvorious mocked. 'Strength can carry you far—but how long will it last?'

  A doorway of light shimmered into view, and Ravelle trudged toward it, exhaustion etched in every step.

  Galvahin exhaled sharply, closing his eyes as the image of the slain wolves lingered in his mind. This part of the story had always unsettled him, but now it chewed at him in a way he couldn’t escape. Was it truly strength to meet violence with more violence, leaving nothing but carnage and exhaustion?

  He turned the page but hesitated, his thumb resting against the edge of the paper. He wasn’t foolish, he had more than his fair share of encounters where spilling blood was the only solution. But still, surely there could’ve been another way—a chance to outwit the wolves, to escape without such brutality. Ravelle had her sword, yes, but she also had her mind. Was strength not also the ability to find solutions beyond brute force? To spare instead of destroy?

  His face deadpanned as he spooned the last of the stew into his mouth, the warmth doing little to soothe the sourness in his chest. Ravelle’s victory felt hollow, a triumph that left her battered and diminished. Strength can carry you far—but how long will it last? Malvorious had mocked. Galvahin shook his head. Was it really strength if it left you weaker in the end?

  He sighed and returned to the text, but the knot of discontent in his chest only tightened. His lip twitched into a fleeting smile when he recalled what the third trial would be; as a boy it had always been his favorite.

  "The Third Trial: Beauty

  Dame Ravelle stepped through the portal, arriving in a garden where every bloom was a golden carnation. Their petals gleamed like sunlight, their scent heady and sweet. Rows upon rows of them stretched endlessly, shimmering with an ethereal glow.

  'Choose the most beautiful bloom,' Malvorious’ voice echoed maniacally.

  Ravelle walked among the carnations, her armoured boots reflecting the image of the flowers. Each flower seemed identical to the last—perfect, radiant, untouchable. Yet the uniformity seemed uncanny, their beauty forced and unnatural.

  Then, in the shadow of a larger bush, she spotted a smaller carnation. Its petals were imperfect, its gold hue dulled, and its stem bent under its own weight. Yet it bloomed defiantly.

  'This one,' Ravelle declared, plucking it carefully. 'This carnation is the most beautiful of them all. Its beauty lies not in perfection, but in its struggle to grow.'

  'A flawed flower, in a garden of perfection?' Malvorious’s laughter was sharp and cutting. 'How fitting.'

  Just like the earlier trials, a doorway of light appeared ahead. Ravelle stepped toward it, the imperfect bloom cradled in her gauntleted hand, as the garden faded to shadow behind her."

  Wait, what? Galvahin scowled, his grip on the book tightening further. He had forgotten how this part of the story had gone, remembering only how it made him feel. The lesson of beauty in imperfection—he’d once thought it poignant, even comforting. But now? Now it grated him. It rang hollow, trite, and unbearably smug.

  His eyes lingered on the description of the carnation, its bent stem and faded petals heralded as some grand token of worth. Beauty in adversity, the story preached. It was the sort of neat, sanitized wisdom that felt good on paper but wilted under the weight of reality. A carnation, perfect or flawed, wouldn’t prove anything to a manipulator like Malvorius. A flower couldn’t protect a prince or bring justice to the dead. It was useless.

  Galvahin exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation pricking the edges of his thoughts. What bothered him most was the dishonesty in it all. Sure, it was nice to say the imperfect carnation was the most beautiful, but he knew the truth: most people wouldn’t see it that way. They’d scoff at its flaws, turning instead to the perfect blooms without a second thought. The story’s moral felt meaningless, an empty reassurance that didn’t hold up against the realities of the world.

  Another inconsistency burned within him. Why would Malvorius even care about some moral platitude on beauty? The garden, the golden carnations, the trial—it was all an empty performance, designed to stroke Ravelle’s ego rather than test her. It didn’t matter what carnation she chose; the story was already rigged to make her right.

  He set the book in his lap, his shoulders slumping as frustration grew in his chest. The story had once been a refuge—a source of quiet hope on dark, uncertain nights. But the more he read it now, the more contrived and vacuous it felt. He’d believed in it once, wanted to see himself in its grand ideals. Now, all he could see was a parade of shallow choices and answers that didn’t matter.

  Even so, he opened the book up and kept reading. His lips pressed into a thin line, his dissatisfaction settling in him like a sickness. For a story that once made him feel like a hero, it now left him wondering why he'd ever thought it was heroic at all.

  "The Final Trial: Sacrifice

  Dame Ravelle emerged from the final portal into a grand, crumbling hall of black obsidian. A faint, sourceless light illuminated the scene: Prince Gwyndan lay in the center, encased in a crystalline prison, his slumbering face pale but serene. Surrounding him stood five statues, each depicting a knight in full armour, their hands clasped over the pommels of their stone swords.

  Malvorious appeared in a swirl of shadow and flame, his grin as sharp as a blade.

  'You’ve done well to come this far, Dame Ravelle,' he purred. 'But the final trial awaits. A true knight must sacrifice, for only through sacrifice can the unworthy find redemption. One of your virtues must be given away, freely and without hesitation.'

  'Speak plainly, sorcerer.' Ravelle drew her sword, her stance unwavering. 'What must I do to free the prince?'

  'Each of these knights gave away a part of themselves to pass this trial.' Malvorious gestured toward the statues. 'Wisdom, courage, honour, strength, beauty. To succeed, you must relinquish one of these, and it will be lost to you forever. Decide.'

  The knight turned to the statues, studying their impassive faces. Each bore cracks in its stone—a missing gauntlet here, a broken sword there—tangible reminders of what had been taken. Her eyes settled on the statue with a broken face, the stones crumbling around its visage.

  'I will sacrifice beauty,' Ravelle declared, her voice unwavering. 'For it serves no purpose in battle, nor does it make me a better knight.'

  'Such a predictable choice,' Malvorious sneered. His laughter echoed across the chamber. 'But do not think it will cost you nothing.'

  As the sorcerer raised his hand, Ravelle’s polished armour tarnished before her eyes, its golden finish fading into rusty, pitted steel. Her sword's pristine edge dulled, and her radiant hair fell in uneven clumps on the floor. Her reflection, once striking, now appeared worn and weathered in the jagged shards of crystal around the prince.

  'Take him, then.' Malvorious gestured toward the prince. 'If you can bear to be seen.'

  Ravelle raised her sword and strode forward, her steps firm as ever. She shattered the crystal prison in a single strike, freeing the prince. Gwyndan opened his eyes, his face filling with gratitude.

  'You’ve won,' Malvorious said, his voice dripping with mockery. 'But remember this, Dame Ravelle: the world is cruel. You will forever be treated differently for what you’ve lost. Beauty may seem shallow, but without it, even the noblest deeds are often overlooked.'

  Malvorious vanished in a burst of smoke and fire, leaving Ravelle and the prince alone in the ruinous hall. She glanced at her reflection once more in the shards of jagged crystal, her marred appearance staring back at her, and her lips tightened. She turned away, ready to lead the prince home in silence.

  But Gwyndan stopped her, taking her gauntleted hand in his.

  'You are still beautiful,' he said, his voice soft but resolute. 'Not for how you look, but for what you’ve done—for the courage and sacrifice that saved my life.'

  Ravelle blinked, momentarily stunned, as the prince smiled at her.

  'If you’ll have me,' he continued, 'I would be honoured to marry the knight who gave everything to protect me.'

  For the first time in her entire journey, Ravelle faltered. She nodded after a moment, a soft smile gracing her features. Without another word, she led him through the portal home, his words lingering behind her like the echo of a song.

  And the two lived happily ever after."

  Galvahin stared at the page, his breathing shallow, his fists hot. The words blurred from his eyes, not from tears, but from the boiling frustration coursing through him. Before he could stop himself, his hand shot out, hurling the book across the room with tremendous force. It struck the workbench with a harsh crack, its spine splintering on impact. Pages exploded outward, scattering in a flurry of parchment that fluttered to the floor like fallen leaves.

  For a moment, silence. Then, the faint rustle of loose paper settling.

  Galvahin pressed his palms to his face, his breaths harsh and uneven. His chest ached—not from exertion, but from the tremendous weight that built there, its force unbearable by the time he reached the story’s conclusion.

  “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. “Damn this story. What utter gobshite.”

  The simplicity of it clawed into him. The trials, so neatly contrived, with their obvious answers and shallow reservations. Ravelle’s choice to sacrifice her beauty for the prince—was that really a sacrifice? She was still adored, still rewarded with marriage. Was that all it took to find purpose? To find love? A fairytale trial and a happy ending? It felt like an insult, a cheap mockery of everything he’d once dreamed.

  His thoughts turned inward, spiraling deeper into the hollow corners of his mind. He had no prince or partner waiting for him. No friends to laugh with, no companions to share his burdens. The adventuring life, once a noble pursuit in his eyes, had only ever pushed people away. Who could stomach a man like him—gruff, tired, worn thin from survival? His only connections were fleeting: a polite shopkeeper, a few travelers, a barmaid or two who gave him drinks for playing unofficial guard. And those, too, always faded.

  Galvahin’s gaze drifted to the scattered pages on the floor, a tangled mess of words and ink, their order disrupted. He thought of how he’d once clung to this story as a child, believing its lessons, cherishing its hope. How foolish he had been to think the world worked like that—to think courage and sacrifice could lead to something as simple as a happy ending.

  His jaw tightened, and he leaned back against the wall, the firelight flickering over his weathered features. What had his life even become? A cycle of wandering, of barely scraping by? Of chasing some ill-defined sense of purpose? If this story was childish, then what did that make him? A man still playing at heroism, chasing something he didn’t even know how to name.

  The room was quiet save for the crackle of the hearth. His frustration ebbed slowly, giving way to something colder—an aching loneliness that settled in his chest like a ball of ice no flame could melt.

  After a while, Galvahin’s grey eyes fell to the mess on the floor again. He shifted, standing slowly, his joints stiff and uncooperative. Kneeling down, he began to arrange the pages, his calloused hands moving with delicate care. He aligned each piece meticulously, smoothing creases where he could as his brows furrowed in concentration. The binding was ruined, but the story hadn’t been lost—not yet.

  When the pages were in order again, he sat back on his heels, holding the broken book in his hands. His fingertip brushed the damaged cover, tracing the familiar grooves of the illustration: a beautiful dame clad in golden armour, encircled by golden carnations. He clutched it tightly against his chest, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it.

  Without another thought, he climbed from the floor back into bed, the book still tight in his grasp. The fire had dimmed, casting long, even fainter shadows across the darkened room. Galvahin curled onto his side, facing the wall, his arms cradling the fragile pages as he pulled the linens to cover his shoulder. With the book pressed into his chest and knees drawn in close, his eyes closed, the only sounds that could be heard in the room were the faint crackles of the hearth, and the soft muffle of weeping as he drifted into an uneasy slumber.