The sun rose above the horizon, marking not only the beginning of a new day, but the beginning of duty as well.

Quincey awoke in his modest room near the royal quarters and began the day with a swift, cold wash before drawing on his undergarments, a linen chemise and braies. The white shirt concealed the golden pendant he never removed. It was a family heirloom and a reminder of why he must uphold his house’s honor as the last living man of his line.

Over his legs he pulled his chausses, fastening them to his belt. Then came the most important layer for any knight: the padding. His thick, quilted tunic stuffed with wool was meant to absorb the shock of blows during training.

Upon his feet, he wore heavy leather riding boots fitted with small silver spurs, marking his knightly rank. 

He finished dressing with a heavy leather belt slung across his hips, from which hung his longsword and a misericorde, a slender dagger reserved for mercy kills.

Today was a day that did not require full plate armor. The only protection he bore for training was a brigandine, a vest lined with riveted steel plates, which added weight and taught him how to move even when clad in armor.

The morning air was sharp as the blades that rang against one another in the courtyard where the royal warriors trained. The Master-at-Arms, Ser Blackthorne, barked orders from every side, never showing satisfaction, for he always claimed that if he praised his men too highly, they would grow careless.

The old man was a veteran who walked with a limp, yet it stole nothing from the respect he commanded. He was five and fifty years of age and had served the kingdom for more than thirty years. Long ago he had fought beside Quincey’s father, though that granted the young knight no favor. Quite the contrary. In Blackthorne’s eyes, every recruit was the same, and during training he addressed them by no other name than “boy” whenever he corrected their footwork or the set of their blade.

“Again!” the Master-at-Arms snapped, striding among the men and marking each fault with watchful eyes. After all, it was their sworn duty to protect the kingdom and this castle, and thus they must be flawless, whether in vigor or in caution.

The knights sparred with one another, testing and proving each other’s skill while strengthening their unity. A soldier never stood alone in battle, and the first lesson taught in training was that someone always guarded their back, just as they were bound to shield their brothers in arms. Above all else, however, stood the royal family.

Crown Prince Cassian, now king, had taken the crown from his father two years prior. It had not been a peaceful succession. His father had fallen in battle, and thus the prince had no choice but to set the crown upon his brow, claim his father’s throne, and become the next king in the long line of House Eldricourt.

His coronation, however, did not merely mark a new reign. Prince Cassian rose to power at a time when the truce between the kingdoms seemed thinner than ever before. The kingdom of Valerion was meant to rule the others, to guide them and ensure that peace endured, yet throughout history there had always been moments when one of the other realms chose to protest their position and demand more.

Thus the soldiers trained with greater severity, and not only the king, but also his younger brother, the second-born Prince Leander, bore heavy burdens of duty. Though one might think that without a crown upon his head or a scepter in his hand he possessed greater freedom, in times such as these, that was far from the truth.

Prince Leander was charismatic, and thus earned the role of diplomat. He traveled to the neighboring kingdoms, seeking new opportunities and trade routes, while also negotiating treaties and marriages that upheld the already fragile peace.

While the dark-haired prince was the face of the kingdom, his brother, the king, was its voice. His word carried the greatest weight, and Quincey was certain there was none more suited to such a burden. After all, the three of them had grown up together, and he knew firsthand what kind of king Cassian was.

Though Prince Leander officially bore the title of The Royal Envoy, Cassian made certain that all knew his closest friend was no mere knight. Quincey was formally known as the King’s Messenger-at-Arms, the king’s shadow in all but name. Where King Cassian could not stand in person, he sent his word through the brown-haired knight.

There was nothing remarkable about Quincey, save that all knew him as his father’s son. Though he was no nobleman, Ser Alaric Acerbo had been a noble knight, known as The Shield of the Crown for his devoted service to the royal family. It was his bond with the former king that allowed Quincey, as a child, to meet both princes and remain near them even before he began his training.

In truth, the brown-haired knight was now closest only to the king. “You are more my brother than he ever was,” Cassian would tell him in private, and though Quincey valued those words, he did not wish them to come between the royal brothers. He believed that just as he would lay down his life for the king, so too would the younger prince.

The dark-haired prince, whose locks fell in waves to his waist and marked his royal blood, for long hair was the sign of their lineage, spent most of his time with the court mage, Alatar.

Though the kingdom of Valerion did not favor magic and shunned what it might bring about, every ruler required the certainty that he would be protected not only by the sword, but by spell as well. Thus Alatar earned his place within the castle and the honor of guarding the royal family.

Everyone had their duty, and in times when peace was threatened, it mattered most that all fulfilled it faithfully.

So when Quincey finished his morning training, he made his way to the stables to see to his horse. Though no journey was ordained for the day, as a mobile knight who had to remain ever vigilant, his horse had to be ready for departure at a moment’s notice.

His stallion, Astrum, named for the marking between his eyes and down his nose that bore the shape of a star, was among the finest-kept horses in the kingdom. Each morning the knight personally inspected his hooves and ensured he lacked for nothing. Quincey trusted the beast with his life, and thus it was only fitting that the trust be returned.

Next came the visit to the King’s study. The knight with the scar upon his chin was among the few at court granted entry there, even in the king’s absence. Yet now King Cassian sat behind his desk, documents spread before him.

The heavy oak doors creaked as Quincey entered. 

“Your Majesty,” he greeted, bowing his head briefly in respect.

The long-haired man waved a hand, signaling him to draw closer, yet there was more in the gesture. Though he bore the highest title in the realm, he still regarded the knight as his friend, and thus in private demanded less reverence and more honesty. Quincey had once protested, yet now he cherished being the only one granted such grace.

“Quincey.” From the way the king spoke his name alone, relief could be heard within it, and at the sight of his friend in the doorway, some small measure of the burden upon his shoulders seemed eased.

Still, the knight saw the shadows beneath his eyes and the disordered fall of his hair, likely from nervous hands running through it, while his shiny crown lay upon the table.

“I am here for the morning’s orders, Sire. The men are in the yard, and my horse is fed. Where do you need me?” the knight asked, though the true question was “how can I help?” He disliked feeling powerless when looking upon his oldest friend, especially when it was plain the king had risen far earlier than he, if he had slept at all.

“You are not going anywhere today, Quincey. I need you here with me.”

The brown-haired man frowned, though he did not voice his protest. It was rare for the king to require him at his side for an entire day, and rarer still to speak in such a tone.

“What has happened?” He stepped closer.

“The reports from the messengers have ceased. The last spoke of men from Nivemare drawing near.” With each word, both king and knight grew more troubled. For months the kingdom of Nivemare had been suspiciously silent, yet in recent weeks, wherever their name was whispered, fire followed. Towers had fallen. Entire villages had burned. Though there had long been no direct proof that the Serpent-Kin of Night stood behind the attacks, black blood had at last betrayed them.

“With all respect, Cassian, if Nivemare is moving, we cannot sit behind stone walls and wait for them to knock. Let me help.” Quincey leaned forward, daring to place his palms upon the table strewn with maps, documents, and scrolls the king had no doubt studied through sleepless nights.

“You are my shield, Quincey, in more ways than one.” The king shook his head, his dark blond strands shifting about his face like a veil. He had inherited his mother’s fair coloring, while his younger brother’s raven hair had come from their father.

“Then you should send me to the borders, where I can halt your enemies before they can harm you,”  the knight pressed. “If Valerion is to stand against their assaults, we need you safe, Cassian.”

The more he feared for his friend, the more he discarded courtly etiquette.

“Attend to your duties, Sir Knight. They are a shadow creeping toward our throat, yet we must not show them our weakness. So long as you stand here beside me, within these walls, I can keep my mind clear.” Cassian did the very opposite and addressed Quincey by title, that he might know it was no request, but command.

Quincey, however, was determined not to yield. “My father taught me that a knight’s place lies where danger is thickest, not where the hearth burns warmest,” he countered. “I can take my horse and by this nightfall stand where the last report was sent.”

His boldness died the moment the elder man straightened to his full height, shoulders broad, head held high, every inch the sovereign of a mighty realm.

“You will remain in the capital and you will not leave the palace without my leave. Should Nivemare dare come for me, we shall face them together.”

“As you command, Your Majesty.” Quincey bowed his head. Yet as they still stood alone within the study, unheard by any other, he allowed himself one final breach of formality and spoke the man’s name as a friend might. “Should you have any doubts, Cassian…”

The king did not let him finish. His gaze softened. “I know, Quincey. I will find you.”

In that moment, it was enough for the knight, and he pressed no further. Yet as he would learn a day later, he should have. For perhaps then he would not have ended with a sword in his gut and death itself in his grasp, its fire searing his flesh even as betrayal burned his soul.