Side story: Gwenhild (Part 1)
The mornings in the Royal Capital always begin with the rhythmic hoofbeats of knights. Among the many gleaming suits of armor, Gwenhild is always the most eye-catching.
The morning light seemed to favor her, illuminating her flowing golden hair as if a "golden princess" from a myth had descended upon her, each strand of hair like a molten golden thread, flowing with a dazzling brilliance in the breeze.
Unlike other female knights who concealed their hair entirely within their armor, she proudly let it cascade down, falling behind her gleaming silver breastplate, perfectly complementing the griffin emblem on her armor that represented her homeland, Lotharn.
This was not negligence, but rather stemmed from absolute confidence—even though long hair was inconvenient for combat, she firmly believed that she was still the most dazzling sword in the Royal Capital, the most vivid embodiment of the title "Golden Knight of Lotharn." This title came not only from her bravery, but also from her iconic long golden hair, inherited from her mother, Iris.
"Look, it's Gwenhild, the 'Golden Knight of Lotharn'!"
"It's so dazzling, just like the sun."
"I heard that the eldest son of the Earl of Earl Mortimer and the nephew of the Chancellor of the Exchequer both tried to woo her, but were rejected by both."
She was used to the whispers along the street. She slightly raised her chin, straightened her back, and rode her powerful warhorse as if she were born to be one with this glory.
The daughter of a poor commoner knight?
Yes, that's true. But so what?
The condescending pursuits and extravagant gifts from those noblemen only made her feel a sense of condescending absurdity. Their world was built on titles and gold coins, while her pride was forged from steel, sweat, and the purest adherence to chivalry.
She believed that only merit earned through her own strength could be worthy of the title "Golden Knight of Lotharn" and live up to her father's expectations.
Her father, Torin, was also a skilled soldier in his youth, known by his former comrades as the "Knight of Thunder." Although not a legendary figure who could take on a hundred men single-handedly, he earned respect through his solid military achievements and decisive style.
Even though he always says he doesn't deserve the title, the years haven't completely worn away the sharpness in his eyes. The occasional Sparks that flash deep in his eyes don't look like someone over fifty who has been worn down by life.
Gwenhild grew up under her father's tutelage, listening to his stories of the battlefield and watching him polish the longsword that had been with him for half his life. She dreamed that one day she could become a knight even more dazzling and truly deserving of the title than her father.
When I returned to the city garrison to hand over my duties after finishing my morning patrol, a colleague I was on good terms with winked at me and handed me a small cloth bag.
"Hey, Hilde, that adventurer Aidan is here again. He's been waiting for you for ages, and when you didn't come back, he left this for me to pass on."
Gwenhild untied the cloth bag, revealing a hand-polished stone bracelet. The material was ordinary, common river stones, but it had been polished exceptionally smooth and rounded. The leather cord connecting the stones was also very sturdy, revealing the maker's clumsy yet heartfelt dedication. Attached was a note, the handwriting crooked yet exuding a bold spirit. "May these river stones bring you good fortune as long as a flowing stream. --Aidan"
Her fingertips brushed across the cool stone surface, a barely perceptible smile playing on her lips before vanishing quickly. She discreetly slipped the bracelet into her inner pocket, as if it were nothing more than a trivial trinket; only the lingering warmth on her fingertips betrayed her secret.
Aidan, the adventurer who joined her as a local guide during one of her routine missions to wipe out border bandits. His swordsmanship wasn't top-notch, but he was talkative and always had an optimistic air about him, his smile revealing his pearly white teeth, which clashed with the rigid and serious atmosphere of the military camp.
Initially, Gwenhild was quite disdainful of his carefree attitude. How could an adventurer understand the honor and steadfastness of a knight?
Yet, on those long and tedious marches, it was this seemingly eccentric man who dispelled the gloom of the journey with his absurd yet captivating adventures; it was he who could play a cheerful tune on an ordinary leaf, letting the melody echo through the camp under the starry sky; and it was he who would point to the strangely shaped clouds on the horizon and say to her with a smile, "Look, Gwenhild, doesn't that look like the proud plume on your helmet?"
Gwenhild's life was filled with strict family rules, arduous training, and chivalric codes from a young age. Aidan, however, was like a free-spirited wind, carrying the scent of wild grass and sunshine, gently blowing into a corner of her orderly world. He made her discover for the first time that life, besides swordsmanship and honor, could also have such carefree and unrestrained moments. A strange, slightly uneasy warmth quietly grew in her heart.
In a sudden encounter, Aidan, with his less-than-refined swordsmanship, narrowly deflected a stray arrow aimed at a gap in her armor.
"Hey, what are you daydreaming about, my lord knight? No one on the battlefield will show mercy just because of your title." He wiped the sweat and dust from his face, still wearing that nonchalant smile as he teased.
On that day, a crack quietly appeared in the icy shell that encased her heart, accompanied by the crisp sound of an arrow being deflected. She put the bracelet on her left wrist, and beneath the icy touch, she seemed to feel a clumsy yet incredibly sincere warmth.
She put the bracelet on her left wrist; beneath the cool touch, she seemed to feel a clumsy yet incredibly sincere warmth.
Home is at the end of a quiet neighborhood in the Royal Capital. Pushing open the somewhat old wooden door, one is always greeted by the sweet fragrance of the flowers and plants carefully tended by her mother, Iris. Iris is a gentle and tender woman who loves to tend to these plants. The small courtyard is always full of life under her care. She is the eternal source of warmth and peace in this home, the softest refuge beneath Gwenhild's steel armor.
Since being discharged from the army due to an old injury, Father Torin had become much quieter, and a hint of melancholy often lingered between his brows. But whenever Gwenhild returned home and recounted her experiences on patrol or her progress in martial arts, his cloudy eyes would always sparkle again, and he would even unusually drink an extra glass of ale, offering his comments as an old knight. At those times, he seemed to transform back into the spirited "Knight of Thunder."
He would even enthusiastically drag Gwenhild to the yard for a sparring match. Gwenhild would always carefully control her strength, matching her father's slightly slow movements, pretending to be gradually losing ground, making her father laugh and say things like, "You're still far from good enough!" or "This old man's skills are still sharp."
In those evenings, the light on the dining table was always exceptionally warm, and the mother's murmurs and the father's hearty laughter intertwined, forming her impregnable fortress.
That continued until the two-week-long clearing operation ended.
She returned to the Royal Capital with the ease of victory and a secret anticipation, even planning in her mind that the next time she saw Aidan, she would tell him that although the bracelet was simple, it unexpectedly complemented the cool tones of her armor, and that wearing it on patrol provided a subtle sense of comfort. However, when she opened the door to her home, she was not greeted by warm lights and hot soup prepared by her mother, but by a chilling, deathly silence.
Father Torin sat alone in the dimly lit living room, his back hunched, as if an invisible burden had instantly bent his spine, aging him twenty years overnight. On the table, under a solitary lamp, lay an unfolded letter bearing the emblem of the Royal Capital Cathedral's affiliated sanctuary.
"Hilde..." Torin's voice was so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable, "Your mother... Iris... she's ill."
Gwenhild strode forward and picked up the letter. The cold words were like daggers, piercing through all her illusions.
"Crystal Disease" is a rare and currently incurable disease. Patients' bodies gradually precipitate insoluble magical Crystallize, causing excruciating pain, paralysis, and ultimately organ failure leading to death.
The only way to delay the onset of the disease is to regularly drink the church's secret "holy water," but it is extremely expensive and requires long-term or even lifelong use.
Her mind went blank. She was a knight who had distinguished herself in battle; her stipend, while not enough to make her family extremely wealthy, was sufficient for her parents to live a decent and stable life, something she had always been proud of. Why? Why could an illness, like a boulder thrown into a calm lake, shatter all her peace and drag her into a bottomless quagmire?
With no fighting on the border, she couldn't earn extra rewards through military merit. Almost without hesitation, she volunteered to become a permanent city guard in the Royal Capital and took on more strenuous night patrol shifts—positions with slightly higher pay, even though it was a "leisurely job" she had once looked down upon, considering it a waste of precious training time.
She needs money, lots and lots of money.
On a cold morning, after finishing her night patrol, she dragged her somewhat tired body, intending to detour to her mother's favorite old-fashioned pastry shop to buy some of the desserts her mother used to enjoy, even though she might no longer be able to taste them. At the entrance of a dark alley near the market, she overheard two neighbors who seemed to be old acquaintances of her father talking in hushed tones.
"Alas... fate is truly cruel. Old man Torin, such a spirited figure in his youth, the 'Knight of Thunder'... and now look at him..."
"Who can argue with that... The church's holy water is outrageously expensive! But we can't do without it. There are only a few seats left for family members to wait in the sanatorium. Iris's condition isn't good inside, and they don't allow visitors freely. He can't even find a place to rest, so he can only stay in the cold corridor day and night..."
"It's not just that there's nowhere to sit. Last time I went to deliver something to a relative, I saw it with my own eyes... He was exhausted, and just as he was about to squat against the wall for a while, a passing church knight scolded him, saying he was an eyesore, and kicked him up like he was shooing away a fly... That look in his eyes... Sigh..."
"'The Knight of Thunder'... has fallen to this state..."
Gwenhild stood rooted to the spot, her fingernails almost digging into her palms. The oil paper package she had unconsciously squeezed for her mother's snacks was deformed and made a slight sound.
She finally understood that what had been extinguished in her father's eyes was not just hope, but also the dignity of a man, a knight, ruthlessly crushed by cruel reality.
She slowly raised her head, her gaze passing over the layers of gray rooftops to the towering spire of the cathedral in the heart of the Royal Capital. The dawn's light was shining upon it, illuminating the church with unparalleled splendor, but that light, in her eyes, was as cold as iron.