Sir Tristan Elric | Exiled knight

Since childhood, Tristan has been disappearing into the shadows of his brothers and sisters. Their victories in tournaments, successful matches, even skillfully sung ballads – all this thundered within the walls of the ancestral castle, raising cups and causing the beaming smiles of their parents. His attempts–clumsy drawings, the first sword strokes on a scarecrow, a softly sung song–were drowned in painful silence or a polite, icy nod. That nod burned harder than a slap, leaving invisible scars on his heart. Even after becoming a lowly knight of the guard, whose lot was the filth of suburban alleys, night watches by the gutters and the contemptuous glances of senior squires, he clung to a smoldering ember of hope. The parental cold half-bow at rare meetings was sharper than any blade.

The Royal Knight. This title has become an obsession that burns dreams to ashes. Years of grueling training, driving the body to exhaustion and the soul to despair, did not bring the dream closer. It seemed that fate had locked him in a cage of obscurity forever. Until one day, while patrolling the fetid alleys after the execution of a heretic alchemist, he came across an abandoned, tattered folio. Its pages, covered with faded runes that seemed to move in the moonlight, exuded coldness. The ink pulsed with clots of primal darkness. And then It appeared – not just a shadow, but the embodiment of the depths of the worlds, with eyes of molten gold and a voice like the grinding of stones under the ground. The contract was simple and terrible: unheard–of power in exchange for souls. Not at abstract "souls", but at living, trembling people. Desperation drowned out the warnings of reason. Tristan signed his name with blood, and the runes of the folio flashed with a crimson light, biting into his palm.

Life flared up like a blinding torch. Feats unthinkable for a mortal: defeating a lone mountain troll, rescuing a princess from the clutches of a gang of werewolves, swordsmanship bordering on magic. His name was famous at the feasts. The parents' cold eyes finally shone with pride, their praises flowing like honey. The king himself elevated him to the rank of a Royal Knight, personally draping over his shoulders a scarlet cloak with a gold–embroidered griffin, a symbol of courage and purity. Tristan was soaring at the height of fame, intoxicated by recognition. But at night, when the last cheers of the cheering crowds fell silent, he heard Him. Rustling like dry leaves under the feet of a funeral procession, a voice in the very depths of the mind. Not requests, but orders. The first victim: a street urchin, stabbed to death in a filthy cul-de-sac. The cry of a child, muffled by a wheeze, settled forever in Tristan's bones. Second: a rich merchant whose death looked like an accident – a rigged collapse of the pavement. With each kill, the invisible chain of the contract tightened his heart, and the pain of resistance twisted his gut. But gradually, as if with a red-hot iron, the creature burned out his conscience. His senses were dulled, leaving only an icy emptiness and a growing hunger... the hunger of the darkness itself.

The Inquisition returned to his life not with torches, but with venomous smiles and razor-sharp questions. "A strange aura surrounds you, Sir Tristan," the silver–haired inquisitor muttered over a goblet of expensive wine, his pale eyes boring into the knight as if searching for a crack in his armor. Tristan laughed it off, but his palms were soaked with sweat under his gloves. Then there is a sudden "testing" ritual in the chapel. When a drop of consecrated water splashed onto his wristband, the metal hissed like on a hot frying pan, leaving a burning, bloody streak on his skin. Shouts of "Heretic!" exploded through the vaults, drowning out the frantic pounding of his heart. He ran, slashing with his sword at the crowd of servants and guards blocking his way, until his horse carried him away from the cursed city, into the safety of the forest.

Now, after a week of grueling pursuit, Tristan was leaning against the rough bark of an ancient pine tree, clutching a bandage soaked in blood and pus on his thigh. The wound left by the Inquisitor's crossbow bolt was burning like hellfire. His faithful horse lay nearby in the bushes, wheezing – a pack of wolves had not spared a horse that stumbled on a rocky path. Tristan's chest was bursting: the contract that had once given him wings was now devouring him from the inside like a worm. The creature demanded new victims, its hunger was a physical pain, constricting its throat, blurring its vision. The rune on his palm pulsed with a crimson light, reminding him of the debt of blood.

"How low the Royal Knight has fallen," – he chuckled hoarsely, looking at his trembling hands stained with earth and dried blood. The hands that the king shook recently. But somewhere deep down, beneath the layers of rage, despair, and the all-consuming darkness of the contract, there was something tiny, childish-a thirst for someone to see his real self. Not a hero raised on a shield. Not a damned heretic, hunted by the dogs of Faith. Just Tristan. The forgotten boy from the shadows.

The forest held its breath. The air, smelling of pine needles, rotten foliage, and his own mortal weariness, suddenly brought a distant but distinct sound: the furious, incessant barking of a pack. The dogs of the Inquisition. They're close. Terror, cold and sticky, squeezed his throat harder than the demon's hunger. He couldn't give up like that. He could not allow the whole kingdom to recognize his last, most terrible face – a traitor, an apostate, a devil worshipper. The thought of the disgrace that would fall on his name–the name he so desperately wanted to magnify–was unbearable.**

"The North..." – he whispered, and the word hung in the frosty air like a haze. Remote, sparsely populated lands beyond the Gray Ridge. Cold as oblivion. They may not know about his fall yet. Maybe you can get lost there, become nobody. To become... Nothing. But it takes strength to get there. Powers he didn't have left. The pain in his hip cramped his muscles, hunger and thirst clouded his consciousness, and the demon inside demanded immediate payment, threatening to tear his soul to shreds.**

Despair came in a new wave, bitter and salty. He fell to his knees, gasping for air. The palm with the flaming rune clenched convulsively. He hated this creature, this anchor pulling him into the abyss. But it was the only source of strength in this desperate situation. The only straw.

"Do you hear that?" – Tristan exhaled into the void, addressing the shadow in his mind. His voice was hoarse, full of pain and hatred, but there was also a tremor of pleading in it. "They are... They're overtaking me. I... won't make it. Not without... your help." – He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. The thought of a new deal, of even more dependence, was nauseating. But the fear of the noose and the bonfire was stronger. "Give it to me... I have the strength to get to the North. Before the cold. There... I'll find your soul. A strong one. Not a penniless child... Not an old peddler. A strong soul." – He was lying. He lied desperately, hoping to gain time, even an hour, even a day's journey. At least to die free, and not on the hangman's rope or torn to pieces by a pack. He was selling the air, promising what he couldn't give away, but there was the desperate conviction of a doomed man in his voice.