“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.

It had killed Ser Iltorst. A good man, just like that. The Thronebearers had not done better than Afiele’s guards.

Low-level [Guards], with poor equipment, doing as well as [Knights]—no, we Thronebearers held our own only because of our armor.

Shameful. Dalimont’s ears burned at the thought. He examined himself as he returned to the keep. Not in a mirror, but in a Skill.

[Aerial Viewpoint].

A simple Skill. Dalimont saw himself hobbling into the keep, and a serving woman instantly bowed.

“Ser Knight? Do you need anything?”

Dalimont raised his hand and gave her a smile with perfectly white teeth. The Veteran’s Bow. There was, in fact, a type of bow you could execute with only one arm and an inability to move properly at the waist. Yes, Dalimont knew it, and, yes, he executed it perfectly, such that the woman was flattered.

“I would not wish to get in your way, milady Servay. Please, ignore me. I may retire out of the way.”

“Thank you, Ser Dalimont. It’s an honor—you remember all our names.”

“A trifle, Miss Servay.”

Dalimont edged aside so she could move past him with a load of laundry. He kept smiling—watching himself in his mind’s eye.