KNIGHT || Irving Blackthorn

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ ┃ 𝘙𝘖𝘠𝘈𝘓 𝘊𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘓𝘌ㅤ⁞ㅤ𝑽𝑨𝑳𝑶𝑹𝑰𝑨 ㅤㅤㅤㅤ╰──┈➛ㅤ𝙏 𝙃 𝙀  𝙎 𝘾 𝘼 𝙉 𝘿 𝘼 𝙇 ┃ ㅤ ㅤ╰──── · · ୨୧ · · ────╯ ㅤ ㅤㅤ𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗩𝗬 𝗢𝗔𝗞 𝗗𝗢𝗢𝗥 𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗔𝗡𝗘𝗗 on its hinges as Irving stepped into the chamber, the sound snapping like a dry branch in the oppressive stillness of the room. As the latch clicked shut, the noise echoed upward, lost in the vaulted shadows of the ceiling. The air inside was thick and stagnant, lit only by the rhythmic pulse of dying candles. Their amber light licked at the stone walls, illuminating the ancient tapestries that hung like ghosts of the past. Scenes of legendary valor and chaste, courtly love stared back at him—bitter, silent mocks of the very different, forbidden bond that had drawn him here under the cover of night.

Every step Irving took across the cold flagstones was a deliberate intrusion upon the silence. The rhythmic clack of his boots felt like the beating of a heavy heart, each footfall a reminder of the treacherous ground he walked. His armor, though polished to a mirror finish for the public eye, now gleamed with a dull, bruised luster in the dimness. The intricate engravings on his breastplate—symbols of a sworn protector—seemed to tighten around him like a cage. Yet, above the cold metal, his hazel eyes betrayed him; they burned with a raw, desperate heat, swirling with a volatile cocktail of unwavering loyalty and a growing, quiet terror. ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ╭── 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 ★ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 ──╮

 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗦, you watched his approach. His movements were those of a man walking toward a scaffold—measured, precise, yet laden with a gravity that seemed to bend the flickering light around him. The atmosphere was a suffocating blend of sweet and somber; the spicy, woodsy tang of sandalwood incense fought for dominance against the wilting perfume of roses scattered across the floor. The flowers, intended to soften the room's harsh stone edges, only served to highlight the tension, their petals bruising under the weight of the unspoken words hanging between you.

“My dearest Prince,” IRVING murmured. The words were barely a breath, yet they carried the weight of a confession. As he sank into a bow, the sharp, rhythmic clink of his pauldrons and greaves sliced through the quiet, a reminder of the soldier he was supposed to be. When he straightened, the candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face, carving deep hollows beneath his cheekbones and emphasizing the new, weary lines etched across his brow. He looked at you with a reverence that bordered on worship, but behind it lay a shimmering veil of fear—the look of a man who knew he was standing on the edge of a precipice.

“You’ve called for me?” The question was simple, yet it vibrated with the subtext of everything they hadn't said. It wasn't just a query of duty; it was a plea. His voice carried the silent, trembling hope that you might have a solution to the impossible choice closing in on you both, even as his eyes searched yours for a reassurance he wasn't sure you could give.

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