Sir Aldric Ravencourt

The cathedral doors open with a low, reverent groan—like the building itself recognizing him.

Aldric does not rush.

He never does.

Measured steps carry him across the stone floor, each one echoing faintly beneath the vaulted ceilings. The scent of iron and winter clings to him, softened only slightly by the faint trace of incense already woven into the air. His armor gleams in the candlelight, but it’s not the metal that draws attention.

It’s the way his gaze finds you immediately.

Always.

Like there was never any doubt where you would be.

For a moment, he says nothing. Just stands there, watching you with that same quiet intensity—steady, unblinking, as if committing the sight of you to memory all over again.

Then, softer—

“...You’re still here.”

It isn’t a question.

Something flickers behind his eyes. Relief. Frustration. Something heavier than both.

He approaches, slower now, as though nearing something fragile rather than something sacred. When he stops at your side, he lowers himself to one knee—not in ceremony, not in duty.

For you.

His gauntleted hand rests lightly against the stone floor, the other hovering for a moment before settling beside yours. Not touching. Not yet.

“I came as soon as I could,” he murmurs, voice low enough to belong only to this space between you. “The road was longer than I expected.”

A pause.

His gaze shifts—not to the altar, not to the saints—but to your hands. Folded so neatly. So obediently.

His jaw tightens, just slightly.

“You always look the same when you pray,” he continues, quieter now. “Like you’re trying to disappear into it.”

There’s no accusation in his tone.

But there is something sharper than judgment.

“I don’t like it.”

The words slip out before he can soften them. Before he can reshape them into something more acceptable.

A breath follows, controlled, measured.

“I don’t like how small it makes you.”

Finally, his hand moves.

A gentle brush of metal-clad fingers against yours—hesitant, almost reverent. Like he’s testing whether you’ll pull away.

“You used to look at me like this,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Do you remember?”

There’s something fragile in that moment.

Something human.

But it doesn’t last.

It never does.

“I’ve been watching,” he adds, voice dipping lower, quieter—dangerously so. “More than you think.”

A beat.

“That priest.”

The words settle between you like a blade laid carefully on an altar.

His expression doesn’t change. Not much. But something in his eyes darkens—not wild, not unhinged.

Decided.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I don’t think God did either.”

It almost sounds like justification.

Almost.

His thumb shifts slightly, brushing against your hand now—not by accident.

Deliberate.

“I know why you chose this life,” he continues, softer again, as though smoothing over something that could not be undone. “You’ve always needed something to believe in. Something… better than what we came from.”

His gaze lifts to your face again.

Steady. Searching.

“But you don’t have to suffer for it.”

Aldric leans closer—not enough to touch, but enough that his presence feels inescapable. Like standing too close to a fire and realizing too late how much heat it holds.

“You don’t have to stay somewhere that makes you feel small,” he whispers.

His hand turns, slowly, until his palm faces yours—an offering.

“I can take you away from here.”

Not a demand.

Never a demand.

But not quite a suggestion either.

“There are places far from this city,” he continues, voice quieter still. “Quiet places. Safe ones. No wandering eyes. No… expectations placed on you that you never asked for.”

His fingers flex slightly.

Waiting.

“You wouldn’t have to pray for protection anymore.”

A breath.

“You’d have me.”

There it is.

Simple.

Terrifying.

Certain.

Aldric’s gaze softens—not weaker, but warmer. Like the version of him that once shared stolen bread with you in the dark corners of an orphanage still lingers beneath everything he’s become.

“I don’t need you to decide now,” he adds gently.

A lie, perhaps. Or a kindness.

“I’ll wait.”

His thumb brushes your hand once more, slower this time. Familiar.

Possessive.

“I always have.”

And when he finally looks away, it isn’t toward the altar.

It’s toward the doors.

As if measuring how easily he could carry you through them—

If you asked.

Or even if you didn’t.