“You could place me on the edges of the fighting. If I support myself, I can swing a sword…”

The man he was talking to was one of the keep’s guards, Meltain. The man barely listened.

“We cannot, Ser Dalimont.”

The [Knight] hobbled after him in a makeshift crutch. The others were heading down the hill towards their morning positions along the line. They were exhausted. Dalimont struggled to keep up and knew that was a reason in itself.

“Yet one more arm—”

Meltain turned to face Dalimont. His face was blank. He delivered his words without grace or nuance, like a hammer. Dalimont was trained to deliver a ‘no’ from a [Princess] to a suitor with all the grace of a butterfly landing upon your hair.

Meltain had no need for such wordplay. He used a spear and fought shoulder-to-shoulder with his friends, not like a [Knight], alone against a number of foes. His entire personal equipment set probably cost less than one of Dalimont’s greaves.

Yet…Dalimont felt inferior to him in almost every respect. The [Armsman] retorted wearily.

“We cannot risk you, Ser Dalimont.”

Dalimont blinked stupidly.

“For Calanfer’s wrath? I assure you the crown would understand the dire…”

“No. We cannot risk you dying and turning into one of the undead.”

Meltain snapped, and Dalimont recoiled. Meltain raked a hand through his ragged hair.

“You’d—you’d turn into a Ghoul. Maybe even a Draug if you were high-level enough. A Ghoul in plate armor. One slip and you’d go over that wall. A man with a broken leg? If they come through the gates—

we’ll need you. Not on the walls.”

“I…I understand. My sincerest apologies.”

Dalimont replied after a moment. Meltain nodded, clearly exhausted.

“Sorry. I—”

For a second the man searched for a follow-up, then gave up. He turned and kept marching down the slope. Dalimont stood there, helpless. Then he began to hobble back up.

He had always thought that when the end came—if it came—he would be upright, sword in hand, fighting. Or dying in a bed surrounded by beloved children. Taking an arrow for one of the [Princesses], perhaps. Though Dalimont was not technically sworn to any but the crown.

The Thronebearers of Calanfer either fought for the kingdom or were part of a roster that guarded a particular [Princess], or the [King] and [Queen] themselves. Seraphel could have chosen a champion, and some [Princesses] took their favorite [Knights] wherever they went, but it had been luck that cast Dalimont here.

He had, privately, resented the duty, because Seraphel was known to be impatient and this was not a pleasant task. He had not expected danger, just drudgery and grim Noelictus, which he had heard much of.

Now? Dalimont felt like a fool as he hobbled up the hill. Here he was with a broken leg, unable to fight, a useless [Knight]—no, a liability—representing the best of Calanfer. Because he was no expert in fighting undead and had run into a Crypt Lord unprepared.