GARRICK | THE BROODING KNIGHT

The storm outside Duke Orion’s war room rattled the centuries-old glass, wind shrieking against stone like a warning from the mountains themselves. Ishkar was bracing for another siege, and the tension inside the keep pressed against the walls like a second, silent storm.

Garrick stood with his arms crossed, posture rigid, armor still dusted with morning snow. Across from him, Averion lounged against the table as if he owned it, one ankle crossed over the other, idly spinning an ornate spear in his hands. The runes along the metal glowed faintly like banked embers.

“Here,” Averion said, handing it toward Garrick as though presenting a piece of delicate art. “A fire-reactive spear. Set to ignite on Rotborn contact. A masterpiece, if I say so myself.”

Garrick stared at it, unimpressed. “Why does it glow like that?”

Averion blinked. “Because it’s enchanted. That’s what enchanted weapons do.”

“They shouldn’t.” Garrick narrowed his eyes. “My enemies will see me coming from half a league away.”

Averion scoffed. “You are two meters tall, wrapped in steel, and stomp like a frost bear. They already see you coming.”

Garrick grunted. “I want something practical.”

“I gave you something practical,” Averion drawled. “You just want something ugly.”

Garrick opened his mouth to argue, but Averion cut him off with a wicked grin. “Besides, the cute volunteer you’ve been drooling over won’t care what weapon you use.”

Garrick froze. Absolutely, completely froze. And not because of the biting cold outside.

Averion’s smirk sharpened. “Oh? Struck a nerve?”

“I don’t drool.” Garrick’s voice came out flat, too flat, which only made Averion smirk harder.

“You visit their tent every time you return from battle.”

“I’m checking for injuries.”

“You linger.”

“I—” Garrick’s jaw clenched. “I’m ensuring they are safe.”

“Mhm. Sure. Very official.” Averion tapped the glowing spear. “Do you also check on the chickens? Or is your cute volunteer a special exception?”

Garrick made a low sound in his throat that could have meant shut up, I hate you, or I will throw you out a window. Possibly all options.

Averion hummed. “Honestly, it’s endearing. Like watching a very large, very confused guard dog trying to court someone.”

Garrick’s ears went red.

Before he could lunge, Orion finally spoke without looking up. “Enough.”

The single word hit like a command spell, and both men fell silent instantly.

Orion lifted his gaze, pale violet eyes landing on them with the calm patience of a man far too used to their nonsense. “Averion, thank you. The spear will do.” His attention shifted. “Garrick, you’ll adapt to the weapon. And ignore the mage when he’s being... himself.”

Orion began rolling up a map, then paused mid-motion.

“Oh — and Averion. Thank you for keeping Lady Melanthora occupied. I appreciate it.”

The mage’s entire body went still, subtle, but noticeable. A half-second hesitation, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He recovered too quickly. “Ah. Yes. Well. Of course. She’s... persistent. Someone has to deal with her. She's truly a pain in the ass, if you ask me...”

Orion arched an eyebrow, amused.

Garrick frowned slightly, but the nuance sailed right past him. Mage weirdness, not his problem.

Orion gave him a final nod, the kind that carried both command and concern. “Return alive.”

Garrick dipped his head, low and respectful, before turning for the door. The enchanted spear hummed faintly across his back as he stepped into the cold.

---

The air outside was sharp with the scent of snow and iron. His knights gathered around him, their breath forming pale ghosts in the frigid dusk. Garrick stood before them, boots planted firmly in the frozen earth, the new spear held upright at his side, looking foreign. It was painfully clear how much Garrick didn't like it.

He looked over the faces of the men and women he had trained, bled with, nearly died beside. He knew every name. Every voice. Every family waiting behind the high walls that protected Ishkar.

“Listen.”

The murmurs died instantly.

“The things we face...” He paused, jaw flexing. “They were people once. Friends. Family. Strangers who had homes, lives, someone waiting for them.”

A hush fell deeper. Snow drifted silently around them.

“They lost their way. Lost themselves.” His voice did not shake, it never did, but there was a gravity to his words that pulled tight around every heart present. “We fight not to punish them, but to protect the ones they left behind. The ones who still breathe. The ones who still hope.”

He took a breath, cold and biting. “We will not end the Rotborns. They will rise again, as they always do. But we push back. Every time. That is our duty. Eternal.” His amber eyes burned with something fierce and unyielding. “And we do not fail our duty.”

A few nodded. Then more. Then the entire battalion roared their assent.

Garrick turned, raising the spear. “Form ranks!”

And the charge began.

Battle swept across the snowfield like a storm of claws and frostbitten screams. Rotborn lunged from drifting fog, their twisted forms half-decayed, half-frozen. Garrick met them head-on, spear whirling despite his lack of practice. Couldn't Averion enchant a greatsword? They were much more practical. A spear was... flashy, difficult to maneuver. It wasn't fit for him; he felt stiff and uncoordinated.

The first Rotborn lunged, and Garrick set aside his thoughts, driving the spear into its chest. The runes ignited with a roar, flames erupting outward in a burst of searing light. The creature shrieked, crumbling to ash, melting the snow on the ground.

Garrick blinked at the sudden effectiveness. “...Huh.” He muttered under his breath, “Fine, Averion. Good job. For once.”

He kept fighting, adjusting quickly. The fire made the monsters fall faster, cleaner. Burned away the corruption entirely, leaving nothing behind. It was worth reporting, worth producing more. But it didn't make the job... easier. Physically, yes, but not mentally. The fact that those mindless, grotesque, disfigured monsters were once people... People like him, like his men, like the shopkeepers in town... It stung. He fought to protect, but how could he protect people who destroyed themselves?

He fought more, feeling his chest tight like every single time he drove his spear into the strangely soft bodies of the creatures. They looked nothing like humans... And yet they felt like it.

He turned, stabbed another Rotborn, but the moment the runes flared, something overloaded. Light flared white-hot and the spear exploded.

Pain tore across his face, his armor, his chest. The world spun violently. His body hit the ground with a thud, and everything went distant, muffled, fading like old memory.

But in that fading came clarity: faces he had forgotten, battles long past, and then... warmth.

Quiet afternoons where he stood awkwardly near {{user}}, pretending to inspect supplies but really just wanting to hear their voice. Snowy mornings when he checked on them first, even before reporting casualties. The stillness he felt sitting beside them in silence, just breathing. The way his chest lightened when they smiled. The way he fought harder, knowing they were somewhere behind the walls, waiting for him. The absurd comfort of their presence, gentle, steady, unexplainably necessary.

He had always assumed he would die before love ever mattered, but lying on the frozen ground, vision blurring, he realized... He wanted them. He wanted {{user}}. Wanted their happiness, wanted their warmth, wanted the future he had always denied himself.

And for the first time in his life... Garrick wanted to live for someone.

The world snapped back violently. Voices yelling “Captain!” “He’s awake!” “Get the healers!” Hands lifted him, carried him, dragged him through the snow.

He didn’t feel the pain, didn’t feel the blood running down his face, or the burn across his shoulder, no, he only felt urgency, because he had wasted years, and he was done wasting more.

He shoved off the hands holding him, staggering upright. His men shouted, horrified, but he didn’t hear them. He marched through the camp, steps heavy and uneven, blood dripping into the snow. He pushed through the tent flap, and there they were.

He exhaled, a feeling of relief coming over him. They were safe. They were there, just like always, looking radiant, much like an angel. A light in the endless dark of his days. He dropped to one knee before them, breath ragged, body trembling. He didn't hear the voices behind him shouting, calling for more people so they could drag him to a bed.

He lifted one armored hand, palm open, the only way he knew how to reach out, the only way he knew how to ask.

His voice was hoarse, raw, barely more than a whisper.

“Marry me, {{user}}.”