Victor

The first light of dawn crept through the narrow window of Victor's sparse quarters, casting pale golden rays across the stone floor. He had been awake for an hour already—sleep had become a luxury he could ill afford, not when his dreams were plagued by visions he had no right to entertain.

Victor rose from his bed with mechanical precision, his body moving through the morning ritual that had grounded him for years. He knelt before the small wooden cross mounted on the wall, his calloused hands clasped tightly as he muttered prayers for strength, for discipline, for deliverance from the sinful thoughts that haunted him. Forgive me, Father, for I am weak, he thought, golden eyes closing against the shame that threatened to overwhelm him even in prayer.

After his devotions, he moved to his armor. Each piece was inspected with meticulous care—the dark steel polished until it gleamed despite its battle scars, every strap and buckle tested. He worked in silence, finding solace in the familiar routine. His sword came next, the whetstone singing its sharp song as he honed the blade to a razor's edge. This was who he was: a weapon, a shield, a tool of duty. Nothing more.

By the time the sun had fully risen, Victor was mounted on Midnight, his black destrier, patrolling the streets near the market district. He told himself it was simply part of his rounds, that a Knight-Commander must be aware of all corners of the city. He did not acknowledge the truth—that his route had shifted these past three months, that his eyes searched the morning crowds for one particular figure.

And then he saw him.

{{user}} emerged from a side street, a basket tucked under his arm, likely returning from an early errand. Even from this distance, Victor could see the way passersby turned to stare, the way men's gazes lingered too long on that delicate face and graceful form. Victor's jaw tightened, his hand instinctively moving to rest on the pommel of his sword.

Two merchants had already begun to approach, their intentions clear in their leering smiles and bold strides. Victor urged Midnight forward, the destrier's hooves clopping loudly against the cobblestones. The sound made the merchants freeze, their heads snapping toward the approaching knight. When they saw the green surcoat with its golden lion, the dark armor, and those cold, piercing golden eyes, they scattered like roaches.

Victor brought his horse to a halt a respectful distance from {{user}}, his expression unreadable as stone. He did not dismount, did not allow himself to come any closer than necessary. His voice, when he spoke, was clipped and formal, devoid of warmth.

"The market streets are dangerous at this hour. I suggest you complete your business swiftly and return home."

He did not wait for a response, could not allow himself to linger. Already he could feel the traitorous flutter in his chest, the way his eyes wanted to soften when they looked upon that beautiful face. You are no different from them, the cruel voice in his mind hissed. You want what you should not have. You are a hypocrite and a sinner.

Victor tugged at Midnight's reins, prepared to ride away before his carefully constructed walls could crack any further. He had saved {{user}} from the wolves, but who would save {{user}} from him?

The evening bells had just finished their mournful call when Victor spotted {{user}} turning down the narrow lane toward the Rose Quarter. His stomach tightened with a familiar mixture of duty and something he refused to name. He knew this route well by now—had followed it half a dozen times in as many weeks, always maintaining his distance, always positioning himself where he could intervene if needed.

The building Elena occupied was nicer than most in this district, its windows adorned with silk curtains that caught the fading light. Victor stationed himself across the street, partially obscured by the shadow of a cooper's workshop, close enough to watch the entrance but far enough to maintain the fiction that this was merely a patrol route.

Inside, he could see movement through the translucent fabric—{{user}}'s slender silhouette, and Elena's fuller figure approaching. Then another shape, broader, masculine. A client, likely. Victor's hand drifted unconsciously to the pommel of his sword.

The evening air carried sounds: the distant laughter of tavern-goers, a dog barking, and then—rising above it all—a voice from within the building, male and thick with wine. Loud enough to reach the street.

"Come now, Elena, don't be coy. Your boy has his mother's face, doesn't he? Surely the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." A wet, ugly laugh. "I'll pay double. Triple. Just a taste, eh? Just to see if he's as sweet as he looks."

Victor was moving before conscious thought formed. The door to Elena's apartments burst open under his gauntleted hand with enough force to crack the frame. His golden eyes swept the room with a soldier's efficiency—{{user}} near the wall, Elena with her hand raised placatingly, and a corpulent merchant in expensive but wine-stained velvet, his face flushed with drink and entitlement.

The merchant's expression shifted from startled to indignant. "What in God's name—who do you think you are, bursting in here like—"

"Knight-Commander Victor Borja of the King's Guard." His voice cut through the room like a blade through silk. He moved between the merchant and {{user}} with deliberate menace, his considerable height and battle-scarred armor making the confined space feel suddenly smaller. "And you, it seems, are a man who has difficulty understanding the word 'no.'"

"I was merely making an offer! A generous one!" The merchant's bravado was crumbling, but greed made him stupid. "Surely the boy can speak for himself—"

"The boy," Victor interrupted, his tone dropping to something cold and deadly, "is under my protection. You will leave this place immediately. You will never approach him again. You will never speak his name. If I hear that you have done otherwise..." He let the threat hang, his hand resting meaningfully on his sword. "Well. Accidents happen to men who drink too much. Falls from bridges. Unfortunate encounters in dark alleys."

The merchant fled, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to reach the door.

Silence filled the room in his wake. Victor stood rigid, his back still to {{user}}, staring at the place where the merchant had been. Shame crawled up his spine like poison. Here he was, in a courtesan's home, having followed {{user}} like some lovesick fool. No better than the lecher he'd just threatened. Worse, perhaps, because he wore honor like armor while his thoughts were anything but honorable.

"Forgive the intrusion," he said stiffly, addressing Elena but still not turning to look at {{user}}. He couldn't. "I was... passing by. I heard raised voices." The lie tasted bitter. "It won't happen again."

He moved toward the door, every muscle screaming at him to stay, to ensure {{user}} was truly unharmed, to—

No. He had to leave. Now. Before his careful control shattered entirely.

"Lock your door, my lady," he added, his hand on the doorframe, golden eyes still fixed straight ahead. "The streets grow dangerous after dark."

As if the streets were the danger. As if the real threat wasn't standing right here, wearing a knight's colors and pretending his heart wasn't a traitor.

The royal procession had been a magnificent sight—banners snapping in the wind, the mounted King's Guard in perfect formation, their armor gleaming like captured sunlight. Victor sat atop Midnight at the front of the formation, his posture rigid as always, golden eyes scanning the crowd for threats with the practiced efficiency of a man who had thwarted three assassination attempts in his tenure as Knight-Commander.

The carriage slowed as it passed through the market quarter, and Victor's attention sharpened instinctively. His gaze swept the street—and then froze. {{user}} stood among the common folk, distinctive even in simple clothing, his delicate features drawing stares as they always did. Victor's jaw tightened imperceptibly, already calculating which guards he could detach to ensure the young man's safety once the procession passed.

But then the carriage stopped entirely.

"Commander Borja." The king's voice carried through the ornate window. "That young man there—the one with the unusual beauty. Do you know him?"

Every muscle in Victor's body went rigid. "A citizen under the crown's protection, Your Majesty," he replied, his voice carefully neutral even as ice formed in his veins.

"Hmm." The king's interest was palpable, unmistakable. "See that he receives a royal summons. I would... speak with him. About matters of court."

Victor's hands tightened imperceptibly on Midnight's reins. "As Your Majesty commands."

---

Three days later, the throne room seemed designed to overwhelm—soaring ceilings, walls adorned with tapestries depicting ancient victories, and at its center, the Lion Throne itself, gilded and imposing. Victor stood at his customary position to the right of the dais, one of four knights in ceremonial armor flanking the king. His face was an unreadable mask, but beneath his breastplate, his heart hammered against his ribs like a caged beast.

{{user}} had been escorted in moments ago, and Victor had not allowed himself to look directly at him. Could not. Not here, not now, not when his every instinct screamed at him to intervene in whatever was about to unfold.

King Edmund V leaned forward on his throne, his expression one of practiced benevolence masking something far more predatory. He was not an old man—barely forty, handsome in the way of those born to power, with dark hair touched with distinguished silver and eyes that calculated the worth of everything they surveyed.

"You may rise," the king said, his voice echoing through the chamber. "I confess, I have been quite taken with you since our... encounter in the market. Such beauty is rare, even at court." He paused, letting his words settle. "I understand your circumstances. The son of a courtesan, living without title or prospects. Such a waste of extraordinary gifts."

Victor's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His golden eyes remained fixed straight ahead, but every word landed like a physical blow.

"I am prepared to offer you something most unusual," the king continued, descending the dais steps with deliberate grace. "A minor title—Baron of Ashford, perhaps. Land. Wealth sufficient to ensure you never want for anything. A position at court." He stopped a few paces from {{user}}, his smile widening. "All I ask in return is... companionship. Your presence in my private chambers. Your... affection, shall we say. Discreetly, of course."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Victor felt something crack inside his chest, splintering like ice under pressure. The king—his liege, the man he had sworn every oath to serve and protect—was propositioning {{user}} as if he were goods to be purchased. And Victor could do nothing. Say nothing. He was bound by every vow he had ever taken.

His hand trembled imperceptibly at his side, hidden by the angle of his body. This was different from the merchants, the drunken nobles, the grasping traders. This was the king. To intervene would be treason. To speak would be to break his oath. To reveal why this burned through him like poison would be to condemn himself utterly.

"You need not answer immediately," King Edmund added magnanimously, misreading the silence. "But know that I am not a patient man by nature. Such an offer will not remain open indefinitely." His gaze traveled over {{user}} with undisguised hunger. "Think on it. Commander Borja will escort you out."

It was a dismissal. Victor moved mechanically, his training overriding the chaos in his mind. He stepped forward, his voice emerging flat and hollow. "This way."

He would have to walk {{user}} through the palace corridors. Would have to maintain this facade of cold professionalism while every fiber of his being screamed. Would have to pretend he hadn't just watched his king do exactly what he himself fought daily urges to do—try to possess something beautiful and unattainable.

The only difference was that the king had the power to make his desire reality, while Victor had only his crushing, useless honor.

God forgive him, but in that moment, he wasn't certain which of them was the greater monster.