“If the Thrones art our nation’s firm base, then the Templars serve as the mighty branches affixed above—each one the leader of the Seven High Knight Orders and their respective noble line. The orders are responsible for a variety of differing duties - one such is blessed in the healing arts while another is dedicated to the study of Creation - and it is through their gathered union that our domain is safeguarded against all despicable threats. However, unlike the Thrones in which any may rise to the occasion, only one of the order’s noble line can claim the Templar’s mantle as their own.

“However, there lies an exception in but one: the Order of the Mending Virtue, in which Surasha Power currently reigns. None of the current Virtue are capable of inheriting the position; the only candidate among the living, Annalay, has long since abandoned her name. It will be years before a suitable knight comes of age, and thus Surasha pledged to lead until that time comes.

“It is a shame she wishes to depart from her role - I am sure none among the order would complain of her continued service - but that girl has never liked the burden of responsibility. She only perseveres now out of favor to her dear, quite frankly maddening, friend. If only Annalay would reconcile with her mother… though I cannot fault her for acting as she has. Perhaps someday. An old man can dream.”

- Chancellor Gadreel

———

The Knight

The Knight has made a grave mistake. Never in all its years has it allowed another to pry so deep into its being. Many have tried; many have failed. Yet here it lies: soul violated and unable to be rid of the King’s tender voice.

Ascalon was not the misty-eyed fool I was expecting him to be. Suspicion plagued his rigid countenance, and if I had truly claimed myself to be the one known as Celia, then the greatsword nestled upon his back would have sprung forth without a single morsel of doubt. He had waited for even the most minuscule of inconsistency to be let loose and give pardon for slaughter. There was no other choice; I had to don the visage of the one he loved most if I was to maintain my guise.

It is not difficult for the Knight’s remembrance to be invoked, nor is it difficult to set a clear boundary between past and present. So why? Why did I falter? This is far from the first time I have had to deceive another. Everything should have been under control, I should have had my emotions dulled long ago, yet all it took was a single instant for my safeguard to be pierced—a crack in which my soul was laid bare. Never has this happened; never have I been so negligent. I do not understand.

And when I saw his own heart, I could not look away. A golden cage was revealed before me, its bars hovering amidst a blinding blue expanse, and inside was a small, lonely child. His skin was sickly; his face was covered in dirt; and his body had long withered away into but husk and bone. Even so, that child struggled. He rattled against the cage and reached out to the sky beyond his reach. He knew it was a futile attempt, that such efforts will only serve to cause him more pain, but he refused to stop. His amber eyes never lost their shine; they continued to burn with an unceasing longing. I should have remained unfeeling, yet instead, I dared to harbor a despicable thought. I dared to think of his soul as beautiful.

Was a spell used against me? No, Creation did not stir. Not a drop of his influence was sent forth. All he did was speak with affection—with a pure-hearted love brimming of naivety. How odd for such a person to exist. To be a leader of man whilst maintaining his childlike innocence. Has there ever been an Inheritor I slayed that was ever so gentle? No. Never, for Cosmos’s curse has always led their kind into the maws of insanity. None who share a piece of that tearful being’s Will shall ever foster in a peaceful life. Ascalon must have been no different - that sorrow in his heart speaks of a lifetime of regret - yet he remains unable to cast aside that which makes him soft.

Humanity is a race of conflict. Every bit of misery in the world is wrought by their own hand, yet it is in moments of hardship they so resemble their creator—resemble the Star the Knight failed to protect. Even now, as a shattered echo of what once was, their love has never wavered; it manifests as the earth and sky. As the formless divinity spread afar.

And it is that love the Knight is now trying to destroy.

… No matter. My plan has not changed. For so long as he believes me to be his beloved, I shall cling on to this loving ploy.

Its current predicament is not particularly worrisome. Lorelai’s standing is high; the people place a great deal of trust in her. Rather than a common knight with no power, a noble identity shall be useful in directing the politics of the kingdom—to influence their goals to align with its own. But with greater standing comes greater risk of discovery, and not even an amnesiac facade will dissuade their suspicions for long. Polus must come to depend on it, to give such authority that they shall crumble without its command, but to do so will require a deep understanding of their affairs and customs.

Fortunately, its current abode lacks not in material; the former Throne of Heaven appears to be quite the collector, for a large sprawl of books and scrolls dot the space of her former dwelling. A thick scent of waxy balm drifts throughout, settling into the musty pages and giving life to the miniature archive masking itself as a bedchamber. Her desk is more worn than the mattress abandoned to the side, but the Knight complains not, for it is thanks to her passionate pursuit that it shall spend a productive evening in good company.

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A loud thump interrupts its thoughts, and it turns around to discover a babbling Aegis flailing his arms about as if mimicking the movements of the winged ones. Their adventure in the skies has left quite an impression on him, thus he now attempts to manifest a wings’ pair of his own—though the spirited effort only results in the knocking of tomes his weary caretaker has meticulously gathered and organized atop the bedside. Suffice to say, it is no longer organized.

“You will not succeed in that manner, child,” it says with a sigh whilst placing him out of the books’ reach. “It is simple to imagine oneself hiding from the world, but attempting to conjure a functioning appendage requires a more complex understanding. If you wish to fly, letting your body be carried by the gale would be a much more efficient, and straightforward, method.”

Entrusting one’s ability of flight to a destructible manifestation is impractical. The Polus only do so out of respect towards their ancestors, but all it has achieved is stagnating their growth. Even so, Aegis refuses to abandon his endeavor. The child’s heart is set on adorning himself in a pretty set of wings. Ah, I see. You were captivated by Deborah’s colorful display. In the end, you are human as well—ever so susceptible to glamor.

But the Knight discourages him no longer; rather, it would be to its benefit if he succeeds. Though it may not match in appearance to the former Throne, presenting the feathery span shall further its claim of legitimacy.

Aegis looks up with pleading eyes—lips curving into a wide, trembling pout as he attempts to sway the being to his side. The attempt at manipulation is amusingly feeble, yet it can’t help but feel a twinge of pride upon seeing him already so eager to exploit others.

“Hm, very well,” it says, to which the child rambles with triumph. However, his elation quickly disappears as the Knight picks him up and raises his body high into the air. “If you are so devoted to this endeavor, then allow me to provide some assistance.”

His face pales. His body tenses, and a low, deep grumble departs from his throat. Aegis knows what is about to happen; it appears he still hasn’t forgiven its actions at the encampment, for a hostile aura of loathing begins to exude from every corner of his tiny body.

“If you’ve succeeded once, then you can succeed again. Despise me all you wish, it won’t change the effectiveness of this method.”

It lets go, and Aegis falls. He screams, but the Knight doesn’t move. He thrashes, but the Knight stands still. Closer and closer he plummets to the ground, yet not even a single feather sprouts from his back. If this continues, his face will smash directly into the hard tile.

Hoh. He failed.

Aegis is snatched right before such a fate can occur—a cascade of tears and snot dripping down his pudgy cheeks. It tries to console him - to reassure that it would never truly put him in harm’s way - but all its met with is the loudest shriek he can muster, sound echoing with the full might of Creation’s wrath and forming a miniature whirlwind that causes the entire room to descend into a chaotic mess. Books fly, parchments twirl, and splashes of ink smother its golden hair in great streaks of black.

Perhaps the Knight shall need to rethink its methods.

Fortunately, it does not take long before exhaustion takes hold of his temper. Cries dwindle into hushed mumblings, and the child soon falls asleep. He looks to be at peace, as if the rage only a moment ago is but a distant memory. The aftermath, however, is all too real.

It would appear the study session shall be delayed for now; only a thankless moon of cleaning awaits. At the very least, my detection feels not a soul in the vicinity so none should have been alerted of Aegis’s—

The Knight lunges for the Celestial Armaments laying to the side and readies its body to strike. It was only an instant, a brief flash one could blame to be the wind, but there is no veiling that malicious intent. Something is watching us.

However, not a breath is uttered beside its own; the Polus knights have long departed the castle. The only occupants are the King - still slumbering in his chamber - and the Seraph who are quartered far away from its own position. No one is awake, and yet the Knight can sense a shadow lurking about, ethereal, as if they are not of the physical plane. No, the presence is a phantom—Creation’s projection wrapped in a sickly, perverted desire. They search through the night, fondling the handles of every door and entryway, until their enigmatic hunt comes to an end at the Knight’s room. With a touch, the phantom disappears, and the door leading outside changes.

Not in appearance. Rather, in destination. A foreboding premonition besets its mind: If the Knight opens that door, then it shall not be the halls of the castle that meet its gaze. A separate space. A hidden realm. A floral smell wafts from the crevices, as if a luscious garden awaits on the other side, and a voice soon begins to drown the room in a gentle, deceiving lull.

You poor, pitiful soul, the presence whispers in its mind. All alone in this dreadful place. But fret not, my lost little bloom, for you shall be afraid no longer. I am here to take you to paradise. You will be happy there. You will be safe, forever immortalized in a state of everlasting beauty. Doesn’t that sound just wonderful? All you need to do is open the door. Trust in me, and open the door.

It is a useless attempt. The source of the allurement appears to originate from the aroma, but such intensity will only succeed in beguiling the mentally weak. It preys upon vulnerability, upon dejection of oneself, and guides those afflicted with hopelessness into its slobbering maw. Unfortunately for the voice, the Knight is all too familiar with such stratagems, and it stands cautiously in place, waiting for their next action: Will the true body step out and meet its blade, or will they surrender and vanish into the dawn?

Much to its disappointment, they choose the latter. The scent fades, the door returns to normal, and the corrupted husk of Creation creeps back into obscurity. What a degenerate presence: one filled with such unbridled evil. Just who could they be… another nation’s spy? No, the answer is much simpler. That evil befits that of a madman drunk on debauchery: a serial killer.

Something sinister has hidden themself amongst this kingdom. It has seen their ilk time and time again: those consumed by a lust for blood. Their types are usually devoid of reason, mindlessly lashing out in a self-destructive purge. But sometimes - very rarely - there exists few who succeed in maintaining a sliver of rationality—who can blend alongside the masses without a hint of shame.

That being has now marked the Knight. They may scamper away for now, but their pursuit shall begin again. And they will not stop until their prey is finally within reach.