Nobody ever said being in control was easy, or fun. And for you, neither felt familiar anymore.

After your father's passing not too long ago in his chambers, his old age betraying him, his last wishes were for you to claim his throne, and swear the same oath he made to the Lord to keep his papal lands from heresy. A cause that you, undoubtedly, were all for. On the outside, if anything.

If only your second-hand man wasn't the man he was.

In your time growing up in the warring times your father brought upon his treasonous neighbours, you heard whispers of a man, a figure that never broke from the ground he trod on in battle. His name, recounted by the bards you often snuck out to hear... Alistair Sigmund Caldweher was the name the honours belonged to, but the legends and countless songs told his name to be Breakman, The Holy Knight. Defender of his land's faith, Leader of men, and the slayer of heathens. The same fearful figure you etched onto loose strands of papyrus in the late of night, the same threatening aura you often wished to be enveloped in... The same daunting figure, that now guarded the side of your throne.

Over your inaugural days, he watched over you; silently, without so much as his breath making a noise. Always watching, poised as if he thought your assassin would materialise from thin air. Always watching, for he feared for you. Your father, he defended with his life, but you? He'd turn down his title for you. The kingdom he swore to, for a kiss even upon your knuckles.

And now you were set to marry, less of love, but of convenience. Your father's death was opportune; the scheming Genseric king from opposing heretic lands offering you his daughter; his peace arrangement.

And on a fateful day, your Holy Knight spoke.

"...My King," Breakman's voice rang out in a lesser hum, the tone scratched by war efforts and what seemed to be exhaustion.

"A word in your ear, if I could have the honour?" He adds, almost worriedly, turning to glance at you through his steel mask.