Death is coming for my king tonight, thought Dellan, and my world will be thrown into chaos. The weathered knight stood outside the king’s chamber door like a gargoyle standing watch over an abandoned fortress. Twilight approached, and the pink hue of the western sky battled with advancing gray clouds. The forest surrounding the castle was often alive with chirps and chitters, but tonight no sound emanated from the woodland. He hunched his aching shoulders against the night’s chill, the cool eastern wind penetrating his brown wool cloak. Dellan cursed himself for not dressing in warmer clothes. There was no time.

He stood on his king’s balcony, the door behind him opening into King Marek’s royal chambers set in the tallest tower of the castle. The king treasured the view from here, often using it to think and escape kingdom politics. Dellan watched the curved path of the river meander into the western edge of the forest below, the soft hum of the water’s churning heard from here. Funny how life follows that same path, twisting and turning, never a simple open road before you. It can lead to joy and comfort, but also sorrow and pain.

“The God of Death is coming tonight,” Dellan said to the air, looking behind him at the heavy, wooden door, “and he will be merciless.” His king lay within, covered in his blood. Muffled cries of pain crept through the door. King Marek, the man who taught Dellan how to be a man and a knight, was in agony.

Dellan recalled the moment he received word of the attack, his feet barely touching the castle floor as he raced to the king’s room. He found the king’s trusted steward keeping a silent vigil at his bedside. Towels and rags were strewn all about, crimson seeping through sheets and dripping to the floor. The steward, after conferring with the castle surgeon, had advised Dellan that the wound was mortal.

Dellan shuddered against the cold, the chill stifling the memory, the stiffness in his joints sending waves of discomfort through his bones. His mail felt heavier than normal. He was desperate for answers. The door behind him creaked open on worn hinges, and the humpbacked steward shuffled through. Steward Grynne, the ever-faithful servant of the king, looked haggard.

“Sir Dellan,” he said, the wind making his thinning gray hair dance, “our healer has done everything in his power. The wound is mighty. It pains me to say that it is only a matter of time.”

“I understand,” Dellan said. His bearded jaw clenched. He expected this news. His blue eyes stared at the steward, trying to conceal the fact that he struggled to keep his emotions restrained. A brief vision of a young King Marek entered his mind, a comely youth who wore his nobility with the lightest touch. The memory calmed him. He put a hand on Grynne’s shoulder, more to steady the steward than provide comfort, but accomplished both. “You must tell me what happened.”

Steward Grynne tried to speak, but the effort was more than his mind could bear. Tears streamed down his lined face and he crumpled to the stone floor, his body shuddering with sobs, his gray robes saturated with the king’s blood. Although he grew impatient waiting for answers, Dellan allowed him time to regain control.

“I am sorry, Sir Dellan.” Steward Grynne looked up at Dellan, the dark circles around his eyes growing wider and darker since the last time Dellan saw him. “Forgive my weakness.”

Dellan knelt before the steward. He lifted the steward’s chin with his hand, looking into the man’s eyes. “I have never met a more devout servant of our king, Steward Grynne, nor have I known a better friend to him than you. We have disagreed over the years, but never have I questioned your faith in King Marek. Believe me, old friend, I understand your pain.”

Dellan shook his head, the world spinning in his mind. How could this have happened? he asked himself. How did it come to this? “I know it is difficult,” he continued, “but now is the time for strength. Grief will come, sure as tomorrow’s sunrise. Tonight this wrong must be made right. Please, tell me.”

The steward placed his hands on the floor and pushed himself to his feet, body groaning with effort. “You are right, Sir Dellan. I am sorry. This all happened so fast.”

Steward Grynne limped to the wooden bench on the balcony and sat down. He looked over the guardrail at the forest and took a deep breath. After gathering his blood-stained robes about him, he began to speak. “The blood, so much blood.” The steward stared into the sky for a moment before shaking himself clear. “I was in my chamber when I heard the screaming. I was reviewing the notes for tomorrow’s council meeting when one of the servants burst through my door. Something red had stained her gown as if someone splashed her with dye.” Grynne paused, the memory clear in his mind. What little color he had drained from his face. “She told me the king had been attacked. I ran as fast as my old legs could. What I saw next was a nightmare. Sir Dellan, I have been around men dying and have seen my share of blood, but never have I seen so much at one time coming from one person, my king no less. He was on the floor outside his room, a sword through his back, trying to crawl but unable. I yelled for the surgeon and took King Marek in my arms. He tried to speak, but the pain made it difficult.” Grynne paused a moment. Dellan watched the steward struggle to keep his composure. It was a laudable effort, and Dellan gained more respect than he already had for the old man.

“It took some time,” Grynne continued, “but I was able to drag King Marek back into his chamber. I had no idea if his attacker was near. He kept trying to speak. The healer came and we placed the king on his bed. The healer did everything in his power, and removing the blade was no easy task. The pain must have been…” Grynne shuddered again as if feeling the blade himself. “We bandaged him and gave him something to ease his discomfort. King Marek slipped into unconsciousness. I commend the healer’s efforts, but he is no god. It is in their hands now. I fear they look elsewhere. The king will be dead before the night is through.”

Dellan listened to the steward’s words, haunted by the scene he described playing out in his mind. His heart beat faster as his jaw clenched, over and over, and his hands balled into fists. He felt like he was about to enter a battle. He remembered that same feeling before many such battles, King Marek at his side.

“Was he able to say anything?” Dellan asked, desperate to know who could have done this to their king.

“He did.” The look on Steward Grynne’s face was one that Dellan had never before seen. It was a look of horror, wide-eyed and terrifying. “Two words. It took time to understand him. His voice was so strained. I…” He faltered.

“Steel yourself, Steward,” Dellan said, kneeling before the old man. “Tell me.”

“He said, ‘My son.'”

– – – –

Dellan stood before the door, lightly fingering the pommel of the longsword sheathed on his left hip and the dagger on his right. He knew what he must do. Tonight he held the fate of the Kingdom of Jaliel in his palm. Life’s winding river was taking another twist, this time rushing straight at Dellan with the most difficult of choices. This should not be his decision to make. Men more skilled in kingdom affairs should be in control, but it would come down to politics as usual. Physical and mental strength the knight understood, but politics he avoided at all costs, its underhanded scheming ways too much for him to stomach.

He scratched his graying beard, a practiced stroke repeated countless times. His late wife often joked about that habit, warning others not to disturb her husband when she saw his hand reach his chin. With that simple movement, she knew his mind was lost in another time and place. His eyes glazed over and his thoughts reached into the past.

– – – –

His mind’s eye took him back to the side of a young King Marek, riding into battle. Their horses streaked a path across the dusty plain, the sun reflecting off their silver plate armor. It was a beautiful day, clear and warm. Their enemy awaited in the distance, confident in their ability to stop Marek’s army. They would soon learn otherwise.

Dellan worried about his king’s insistence on leading the charge. Most kings before Marek would stay behind when at war, barking out orders hundreds of yards from combat, shielded from harm. This king was different, and his army already looked at him as they would a god. He refused to remain behind while his army’s blood was shed.

 As their enemies drew closer, Dellan saw King Marek nod, a barely perceptible movement, the only signal he needed to glimpse. Closing their helm’s visors and drawing their swords together, they roared a battle cry, and the soldiers all around did the same. The intoxicating adrenaline rush took control and battle lust coursed through their veins, the reason for being on this field forgotten. They would soon become a force of death. Even from here, they could see their enemy’s confidence wane.

The clash between armies was like a thunderclap, sword and lance clanging against shield and armor. Dellan kept pace with his king, a competition brewing between them. Bodies fell left and right, both foe and comrade alike. It was a wonderful day for the crows and the carrion birds. Already they circled the sky, waiting for their feast to commence. King Marek’s army fought like a well-trained machine, slowly driving the enemy back, then giving up some ground to regroup, only to press forward again. After their horses were no longer useful, Dellan and his king leaped off their steeds to continue the battle afoot, fighting side by side until exhaustion began to seep into their bodies.

Then the unthinkable. Dellan looked around, his head on a swivel. King Marek was nowhere to be seen. When and how he fell, Dellan did not know. One moment Dellan and his king were fighting together, the next King Marek was lost from sight. But their enemies knew. Dellan could hear their screams.

“Their king! Kill their king!”

Anger gave Dellan a second wind, erasing any prior signs of weariness, and he became twice the fighter he had been a moment prior. He shouted for the regiment he commanded to follow him. Hacking and slashing, covered in gore, they forged a path, following Dellan to the area with the loudest shouting. He found King Marek surrounded by enemies.

Dellan could not fathom how the king had survived. A broken spear shaft protruded from his shoulder, his arm limp, his body ravaged by cuts and scrapes. Bruises covered his face, and he was almost unrecognizable. He fought like a cornered animal.

Dellan reached the king as an enemy thrust a spear at King Marek’s heart. The knight deflected the blow and severed the attacker’s arm at the elbow. Blood spurted everywhere. Dellan’s regiment forged a protective circle around their leader and moved the ring away from the battle so the king could be carried to safety. Fighting one-handed, Dellan supported his stumbling king, following the small group of soldiers who fortified this shield of men. It felt like an eternity, but the ring of men held as if forged from iron and led the king away.

Dellan and King Marek were soon safely ensconced on a wagon headed to the healers within their army’s camp, confident in their army’s commanders to complete the battle as planned. Dellan gave himself a moment to breathe, the breeze created by the rushing wagon cooling his sweat-soaked body. His hands began shaking, the aftereffects of the battle’s intensity. His head became foggy, and he almost lost consciousness. He shook himself, trying to unclog his mind and concentrate on King Marek.

“My King,” he said.

Blood oozed out of a dozen wounds. King Marek should have been dead. Rather, he stared at Dellan with wide brown eyes and a faint smile on his clean-shaven face.

“I think I won,” he said.

Dellan stared. “What, Your Grace?”

“That hoard of sheep they call their army. After today they will no longer feel inclined to harass the peaceful people within our southern border. I think I took down more of them than you.”

“My King, be still. Your wounds…”

“…will be looked after. Today is not the day I die, my brave knight. I am not in the mood.”

“We must hurry,” Dellan said.

“My knight, come closer.” Dellan knelt at his side, the cart bumping along as they rode. Marek’s gaze pierced Dellan’s soul. “Dellan.” The king grasped the knight’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“It is my honor, Your Grace.”

“I have only one question,” the king said, smirking.

“Yes?”

“What took you so long?”

– – – –

Dellan wiped the memory from his thoughts. That day the king’s army was victorious, and peace reigned again in the south, the priority of protecting his people foremost in the king’s heart. Today he lay in a bed of blood. Dellan shook, just as he did after that battle on the plain. His knees almost gave way, and the underclothes beneath his mail were soaked in sweat. He felt as if he had fought that battle all over again. The door loomed before him, its bulk staring him down, daring him to make the next move.

“This must be done,” he whispered.

He grasped the iron handle and pushed the door open, hinges squeaking. The room within was dim, and it was a moment before Dellan’s eyes adjusted. The setting sun cast shadows through the large window above the wooden desk resting in front of him. Bookshelves lined the wall to his left, and an oak bed to his right. The corners of the room were concealed in darkness. Dellan walked inside, eyes wary.

Sitting on the ledge beneath the window was a thin, young man. Blond hair sat atop a handsome face. He reclined, legs crossed, looking as if he had not a care in the world. Dellan looked into eyes as cold as frost.

“Christoph.”

“Sir Dellan,” the man said, his high-pitched tone cutting the silence. “Our brave knight of the castle, my father’s most trusted man. What brings you to my private quarters this fine evening without so much as a knock? How discourteous of you.”

“Your father,” Dellan said. “Do you not know?”

“What has he gone and done this time? I try to care, Dellan, but he makes it so difficult to do so.”

“He has been attacked. I am afraid he will not last the night.” Dellan tried to gauge the man’s reaction, but those eyes betrayed nothing.

“That is a shame,” Christoph said, his voice monotone.

“Will you not come and pay your respects?”

“I will be there soon. I so enjoy the sunset during this time of year. My father can wait. It sounds like he is not going anywhere for a time.” He turned back to the window, waving his hand at Dellan as if to dismiss him.

Dellan stepped further into the room. “You cold-hearted bastard.”

Christoph whipped his head around and stood. “How dare you come in here and speak to me in that tone? What is it you want from me?”

“The truth! It was your blade shoved through your father’s back, your hand wielding it. Not enough to stab a man in the back, but to stab your flesh and blood?”

Christoph laughed, a squeal that made Dellan’s head scream. “Oh, my good knight, you are so astute.”

“You made one mistake, Christoph.”

“Oh, and what was that? Please do tell. You are such the sage, Dellan.”

“I wondered why the king was alone when he was attacked. You were able to dismiss his guard because you are his son. They would never have suspected this. You thought it would be a clean, quick kill. No traces. Your father would not live to talk. But he lives, Christoph. You underestimated his strength.”

“Just as you underestimate me,” Christoph sneered.

Dellan heard the faint clink of mail behind him, and he stepped to his right as a spear glanced off his shoulder, his armor protecting him. His sword was already drawn, his movement a blur, as he stepped around with his right foot and cut the wooden spear in two. He looked into his attacker’s eyes and saw complete surprise. Christoph’s henchman froze, his brain not registering how his attack could have been detected and disarmed with such ease. The man stood before Dellan, eyes wide, his ferret-like features garish in the setting sunlight.

The assailant did not take into account the warrior Dellan had been honed into, like a piece of raw stone slowly crafted into a statue. Swordplay was life to Dellan. The training, the battles, and the wars all sharpened him into a battle-hardened fighter. Dellan was no fool. He knew he walked into a chamber of potential death. Being prepared was second nature.

Christoph’s henchman stepped back, reaching for his sword. He managed to draw it halfway out of its scabbard before his head was parted from his body, his skull thumping with a wet splash to the floor.

Dellan spun to find Christoph three feet before him, a curved dagger in his right hand, surprise on his face.

“What happened to you, Christoph?” Dellan asked. “What would cause you to murder your father?”

“What happened? Do you even need to ask? I did not have a father, you naive fool. He did not have a son. He had his precious kingdom. He did not need me. I was window dressing, a little showpiece to bring out when guests arrived. How often I begged him to spend a moment with me. You have no idea of my life. How dare you judge me? When my father did have time away from ruling his kingdom, he did not come looking for me. No, he spent that time with you, his most loyal knight. I was nothing to him.”

Christoph’s hands started to shake. Dellan knew the signs of a man about to charge. I must stop this, but how? he wondered. This is my king’s blood. Memories of Christoph danced in his mind, and Dellan remembered the signs that King Marek and he witnessed of a troubled young boy. Dellan once caught Christoph lashing a castle servant for bringing his meal later than desired, the poor servant’s back raw from the whip in his hands. Other examples came to Dellan’s mind with Christoph’s lack of empathy and emotion as the dominant themes. Dellan had often tried to speak with the boy about his inhumane behavior and help steer Christoph down a different path. His efforts were always wasted, but never did he think it would come to this.

“Christoph, be calm,” he said, keeping his voice steady as if speaking to a child. He bent down and placed his sword on the floor, his eyes fixed on Christoph. “Your father did everything he could for you. You must see that. In your heart, you know that he loved you. Do you know what it is like to run a kingdom, the time it takes, the pressure it places on a man? When he lost your mother it all fell to him. Raising a child is no easy task, especially when you add the responsibility of rule. He did the best he could for you. He would have given his life for you.”

Dellan’s words affected Christoph. To Dellan’s disappointment, it was the opposite effect he had intended.

Christoph began to pace like an animal trapped behind an iron cage, his hands shaking and waving like a madman. The light thrown by the two torches ensconced in the wall behind Dellan glinted off Christoph’s dagger. “You old fool. How naive can you be? Loved me? Did his best for me? Hah! It was his kingdom that he would give his life for, not me. And that is what I have given this kingdom. I have given it its king on a platter. My father held this kingdom so dear and treated his son as if he barely existed. What better way to ruin the man and his legacy than by snuffing out his life and taking control of his precious kingdom? It will pass to me as his only heir. I will rule it in my way. I assure you, old knight, it will be mine to do with as I please, as soon as I am done with you.”

Christoph charged with a menacing smile plastered on his face, the dagger he carried aimed straight for Dellan’s heart. One feature stood out to Dellan, filling him with hatred: Christoph’s eyes. That gaze could render a man speechless, his eyes always lacking any warmth or joy, even when he smiled.

Dellan hesitated. Memories again swirled in his mind, and he saw King Marek playing with his child. He saw Christoph as a baby staring at King Marek, the king so proud of his progeny. He recalled watching both practice at swordplay, Christoph as a young boy wrapped in so much padding that he looked like an overstuffed pillow.

Dellan’s hesitation cost him precious time to defend himself. His fighting instincts brought him back to reality, and he grabbed Christoph’s arm as the dagger was thrust at him, its point coming to rest on Dellan’s chest.

Dellan looked deep into the eyes of the son of King Marek. He saw cruelty and pain. King Marek did love his son. He did what he could for his child with the little time he had. Christoph’s mind has always been warped. He never learned responsibility and never had a kind way about him. My king did not deserve a son like this. Frustration coursed through Dellan’s body. A knight is taught to control his emotions, never overact, and always weigh a situation to find the best course of action. Dellan weighed it. Holding Christoph’s dagger-wielding forearm with his right hand, he tightened his grip and twisted.

“You weak, pathetic excuse for a son,” Dellan said through clenched teeth. “You have a cold heart, Christoph, and have no idea of the opportunities you have squandered.” He felt Christoph’s forearm snap within his grip. He grasped Christoph’s exposed throat with his left hand. Dellan took his time increasing the pressure. “You are not fit to rule a kingdom. King Marek may not have been the perfect father, but you are a disgrace of a son, cruel and heartless. You will never rule.” Christoph no longer smiled.

Squeaks emanated from Christoph’s throat as his face turned red and the dagger dropped from his shattered arm. Christoph pounded on Dellan’s chest. The knight drew Christoph closer, locking eyes with the man who attacked his most trusted friend.

“May the gods judge you harshly.” Dellan squeezed.

– – – –

“Dellan, my knight. Come closer.” The king’s blood-speckled mouth twisted in pain as he tried to shift to a more comfortable position atop his bed to no avail. King Marek’s once comely face was now sunken, his hair gray and thinned, his face white as milk. Steward Grynne, nestled atop a chair in the corner of the room and looking gaunter than before, gave Dellan a mournful look and shook his head. The torchlight made shadows dance on the floor, and the moon shined through the window behind the king.

Dellan, shocked to see King Marek alive let alone speaking, took a knee beside his bed. “Your Grace,” Dellan said, “command me. How may I serve you?”

“I am afraid there are no more commands to give, old friend,” King Marek said. “My time has come. My mood has changed. I am ready.”

“But the kingdom. Your heir…” Dellan’s voice trailed off, and he looked away.

“I know, Dellan. I know. It is no surprise that you took matters into your own hands, and I saw the look in your eyes the moment you entered this room.” King Marek’s voice cracked. “I can see the pain etched on your face at this moment. I know you too well, as you know me. My weakness for him…for Christoph…cost me. You warned me long ago. You knew he was not fit to take my place. I did not listen. I was blinded by a father’s love for his son. I was a fool.”

“No, Your Grace. How could you know it would come to this? We never thought Christoph fit for kingship, but we never would have thought him capable of this.”

“Capable of killing his naive, old father? I knew, Dellan. In my bones, I knew. He lost his mother so young. I thought I could show him the path, as I did you, as a knight. I thought I could lead him to honor. I did what I could, but the kingdom always called. I cannot blame Christoph for missing his father. My absence combined with his…nature…was too much for him to bear.”

“You did the best you could, Your Grace. Some children are…a disappointment. You had a kingdom to rule. Christoph did not have the traits fit for kingship.”

“I failed, and it cost me my son and my kingdom.” King Marek spasmed, the pain making him scream. Dellan could not know if the pain was more physical or mental at this point. No matter. They both cut equally hard.

The steward rushed over from his place in the corner of the room. “Your Grace, what can I do?”

King Marek shook his head. “You know what to do, faithful Grynne. We discussed this long ago. Put our plan into action.”

“I have already done so, Your Grace,” the steward said, looking away. “A messenger bird arrived. He will be here within two days.”

“Thank you, Steward,” the king said. “I know you will do whatever is necessary during this time of transition.” King Marek placed his hand on Steward Grynne’s arm. “Now leave me, my friend. I must speak with Sir Dellan.” The steward looked at his king. Their eyes locked, and what passed between them would remain in Steward Grynne’s heart until he died. He shuffled out of the room and closed the door.

“Your Grace, what can I do?” Dellan asked.

“I am afraid I haven’t much time. How I have lasted this long, I do not know. My lungs slowly fill with blood. Events will transpire quickly. You are a knight, Dellan, perhaps the greatest this kingdom has ever seen. Your honor, your deeds, your integrity. They are the stuff of song. But…”

“Your Grace? What is it?”

Blood dribbled out of the king’s mouth, and he wiped it with his sleeve. “I am afraid there may be no place for you after I am gone. My brother is coming.”

Dellan’s eyes fell to the floor. Alfren. A memory returned of words spoken by an impertinent young knight to a king’s brother. “Yes, I understand,” he said. “I have always known that if you were to pass, my place would not be secure here. I had always hoped that your son would take your place, as we all hoped when your heir was born, and that I could continue to serve. What I did tonight had to be done. Your son could not rule.”

“My knight.” The king looked at Dellan, trying to comfort him through his pain, his voice weak. “I am sorry. You know how Alfren has always been, quick to anger and quicker still to hold a grudge. Calling him an old greedy fool may not have been your wisest moment.”

“He would have attacked the peaceful people of Rothesia to expand our kingdom. I should have…chosen better words. I was young and not fully in control of my emotions at that time. You know how wild I was.” Dellan shook his head.

The king smiled. “I remember. The young boy I found on the streets of the capital wore his emotions forthright. As a knight, you learned how to control them. Alfren’s heart is in the right place, although his stubbornness knows no bounds. He will rule in my stead. The people may not love him as they did me, but he will be fair. When he suggested so long ago that we attack our neighbors to the west, I believe he was trying to impress his older brother. Taking harsh words from a knight, no matter how I felt about you or how much I valued your opinion, was taken personally by Alfren. He always felt stepped over, and he could not handle words from someone he felt beneath him in the order of things. Besides, he will want to choose the man who serves as his captain and most trusted confidant. I am afraid it will not be you, and your place in this castle will be finished. Steward Grynne will of course urge him to keep you here due to the circumstances, but…” He shook his head.

“I understand, Your Grace. It seems we will both suffer an end this night.”

“Yes, it seems so.” The king slumped further in his bed. “You can still do great things, Dellan. You can live out your days with honor and raise a family, or roam the countryside, helping others, leading a knight’s life.”

“I have been at your side for over thirty years in this castle, your closest advisor. I cannot imagine what else I would do.” Dellan’s fear of the unknown surprised him. An idea entered his mind, but another wince of pain from the king startled him. “Your Grace, it has been my greatest honor to serve you. I am the knight I am, the man I am, because of you.”

“No, my friend.” The king’s eyes fluttered. His voice became a whisper. “Your service to me was always unquestioned. Your honor never wavered.” King Marek looked at Dellan and smiled, cupping his hand around Dellan’s cheek. “If only my son were like you.”

Try as he might, Dellan could not stop his tears from coming in a flood. He looked down, his mind taking him back to the day of his coronation as a knight, the revelry, the emotion, the joy of his achievement. King Marek stood before him, touching Dellan’s shoulder with his sword. Dellan swore before the gods that day. Now he cursed them.

Dellan looked up. King Marek’s eyes stared sightlessly.

– – – –

Darkness covered the realm. Dellan sat atop the stone guardrail on the king’s balcony, his leather boots swinging in the open air, the cool wind kissing his worn face. The chirps and chitters of the forest returned, a bit of normalcy returning to Dellan’s world. Like his king, he also loved this part of the castle. The strong spruce trees far below him rose like spears on a battlefield and the sounds of the rushing river eased his mind.

That river is so much like my life. He remembered being a frail orphan boy begging for food on the streets and stealing when necessary. Survival was his calling then, the strongest need of all. Getting caught stealing from a man who would soon become king was not Dellan’s fondest memory. His shame stung even now, but that decision changed the course of his life. What young Marek saw in Dellan the boy was never discussed between them. A bond was forged that day, and they remained together ever since.

He looked again at the forest directly below his feet. Is this how it is supposed to end? I swore a vow to my king, to serve him and this kingdom until my death. But everything has changed. Where do I belong now? I am lost.

He remembered his wife, taken from him so long ago, an illness infecting her body no healer could cure. He longed to see her again. That was now possible. He could see her tonight if he wished. One simple movement, a push of his arms, and he would be free. He would again have his beautiful Lara in his embrace and take his place at King Marek’s side. The afterlife tugged at him. He could hear his wife’s voice in his mind, see her glowing face.

If he chose that path, his honor would remain intact, and his vows to his king would remain unbroken. He was satisfied with that. He could leap with a clear conscience.

“But why does it feel so wrong?” Dellan said to the night air. “Is this how my life is to end, at my choosing?”

“No.” Dellan turned at the voice, so startled he almost lost his grip on the guardrail.

“Who is there?” Dellan asked. The only answer was the chill in the air. I am losing my mind.

“You must continue.” King Marek’s voice penetrated his mind, his voice clear and sharp. “My kingdom, Dellan. It needs you still. Your vow to me is fulfilled, but your vow to the kingdom remains.”

Dellan smiled. Somehow my king watches over me still. Peace settled into his bones, and he inhaled the evening air deeply, drawing in strength. He exhaled at length, ridding himself of the many emotions generated from tonight’s tragic events: fear and pain and loss.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Dellan said to the night sky. “I know you reserve a spot for me at your side. I will join you and Lara soon.”

Dellan swung his legs over the guardrail to the smooth stone of the balcony, feeling its solidity. He looked up again at the sky.

“But not tonight.”

Dellan would leave the castle this evening, head held high, and never look back. He would continue to serve and live out his vow as a knight. There would always be a need for a man such as Sir Dellan in King Marek’s kingdom, a kingdom his king built with a firm but kind hand, and he was proud to serve in that role. His allegiance to his king and kingdom would persevere. One word would continue to define him.

Loyal.

THE END

Author’s Note: This was the first piece of short fantasy fiction I wrote when I embarked on my journey as a writer, one that holds sentimental value (and if you know me at all, I rarely get sentimental about anything). I hope you enjoy it. The story is included in Tales: A Collection of Short Fantasy Fiction. If you’ve read any books from The Legacy Series, you may have recognized the names of the kingdoms mentioned in this short story. Who knows, perhaps we’ll meet Sir Dellan again in a future tale set in Rothesia.