Side story: Gwenhild (Part 2)

Her father held her tightly, his hands, which had once wielded a long sword but were now withered and emaciated, pressing down on her hands that were resting on the hilt of the sword.

"No... Hilde... no..." The father's voice was hoarse, trembling with an almost pleading tone, each word seeming to be squeezed out from a torn throat.

Gwenhild's body stiffened, her chest filled with rage and humiliation, threatening to burst. "Why! Father! Why not! How dare they treat you like that... like a fly! That's not how a knight should behave!"

The scene described by her neighbor flashed uncontrollably before her eyes—her father, exhausted and huddled in a corner, was kicked awake by a church knight in gleaming armor, who scolded him for being an eyesore. That was her father, Torin, once hailed as the "Knight of Thunder"! This humiliation was a hundred times more painful than if it had been inflicted upon her.

The father tightened his grip, as if if he loosened his hold, his daughter would rush out and cause a catastrophe. "Anyone who can be a knight in a place like the church... isn't they all related to nobility? What do we have to fight them? Your mother... your mother can only survive on holy water now... we even have our visitation rights in their hands... if you offend them, one day, your mother might be..."

His thin, bony fingers trembled slightly from the force of his grip, and his voice carried a crushed despair, "They have a million ways to explain everything as an 'accident'..."

Her father didn't finish speaking, but Gwenhild understood. The raging anger that had been fueling her was instantly extinguished, as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over her head, leaving only a chilling cold and a sense of powerlessness. For the first time, her upright figure seemed to sway slightly.

Beneath the splendor of the Royal Capital lay such cold and dark rules. Only now did she truly grasp them.

But... why? My father has always been well-liked, an upright man, and has never intentionally offended anyone. Why would he be subjected to such targeted harassment?

"Why... why did they treat you like this?" She heard her own voice dry.

The father was silent for a moment, his breathing heavy, and finally, as if he had exhausted all his strength, he spoke in a low voice, "The church... only set up a few free seats at the entrance... to put it bluntly, it's to force families to buy beds in the nursing room... but the price is too expensive. I originally... didn't mind the dirt, and wanted to sleep on the corridor floor... but they said it would be unsightly..."

He paused, his voice tinged with humiliation. "Actually... all I want is money. For the past ten days or so, I've barely slept... I can only sit for a short while in the occasional empty seat... I can't leave; I have to have Old Barton and the others take turns bringing me food... because if I'm away for too long, no one will 'sign' the papers... and your mother's medication might be stopped. I even asked if I could sign all the remaining papers at once... they wouldn't allow it, saying 'her condition is unstable, and the medication regimen needs to be adjusted as needed'..."

The father's voice trailed off. "Actually... I just want money... At night, if there aren't knights patrolling, I sleep on the ground... Sometimes they turn a blind eye... But I..."

Her father didn't continue, but Gwenhild understood. It wasn't "sometimes," it was "only with him." It was intentional. Those high and mighty noblemen were using this dull knife to slowly torture her father's dignity, forcing her to bow her head. A clear and cruel answer surfaced in her mind.

A clear and cruel answer came to mind.

She spoke with difficulty, each word seeming to be squeezed out of her throat. "Someone... wants... me, right?"

The father nodded heavily, his cloudy eyes filled with pain and guilt. "I've inquired... the Earl Mortimer's family, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer's nephew... they've all spoken out... but Hilde, I won't allow it! I absolutely won't allow it! Your mother and I... we'd rather... than become a burden to you! You are the 'Golden Knight of Lotharn'! You are our pride! We won't allow you..."

"... Yes, I understand, Father." Gwenhild interrupted him, her voice unusually calm. She gently pulled away from her father's embrace and helped him sit down in a temporarily empty chair to the side.

That long hair, once hailed as "the golden sun of Lotharn," seemed to have lost its former luster, hanging dimly on the shoulder armor like wheat stalks struck by autumn frost.

She continued to fulfill her duties as a night watchman, since her father had retired from the army and this was currently the family's only stable income. However, her monthly salary was not even enough to cover the cost of a bottle of holy water that her mother needed every ten days.

She started taking on jobs she had previously looked down upon—low-level commissions for adventurers. But around the Royal Capital, monsters were scarce, and the tasks were mostly things like moving goods or short-distance escorts, with meager pay. She couldn't afford to leave either; her ailing mother and exhausted father needed her.

She remembered her promise to Aidan to visit his town on his birthday. The adventurer, who always had a sunny smile, still wore the stone bracelet he had given her; its cold, rough touch reminded her of the guilt she felt for not being able to keep her promise.

The knight's promise was as heavy as a mountain, but it seemed so pale and powerless in the face of the life of her loved one. She could only bury that small hope, along with the stone bracelet Aidan had given her, deep in her heart, as if burying another possible version of herself.

Days Tenten in a desperate stalemate, slowly eroding hope and dignity.

Until that day, all her savings were finally exhausted. The purse containing the holy water money felt frighteningly light.

She stood before the mirror. The female knight in the mirror looked weary and her face was pale. She reached out and gently stroked her long, molten gold hair—a symbol of her glory, the most precious gift her mother had passed down to her, and the pride she had once cherished dearly.

There was no crying, no sighing, as if she were performing a silent sacrifice. She picked up the scissors, and pressed the cold metal against the back of her neck.

"Click."

One strand, then another.

Her once flowing golden hair had fallen to the ground, piling up at her feet like a withered field of golden wheat that had been ruthlessly harvested.

She became like an ordinary knight, with a neat short haircut. Only the face in the mirror was pale and unfamiliar, and something in her eyes had been cut off along with her hair.

She sold her cut-off blonde hair to a merchant, and the money she received weighed heavily in her hand, but it was only enough to pay for three months' worth of holy water.

The title "Golden Knight of Lotharn" was gradually forgotten. New whispers began to circulate in the Royal Capital, about her family's decline and her sudden haircut, with words carrying genuine or feigned pity and undisguised contempt.

She tried to ignore them, but the pressure of reality kept mounting.

Okay, I give in, she thought.

The moment this thought arose, something that had supported her for over twenty years seemed to shatter and collapse in an instant. She felt an unprecedented exhaustion, but what followed was a strange, resigned calm.

She found Earl Mortimer's eldest son, the young nobleman who had once showered her with attention.

He sized her up, his eyes filled with undisguised mockery. "Ridiculous. Gwenhild, do you think you're worthy of the Mortimer family name in your current state? Look at yourself!"

She subconsciously looked down and saw her reflection in a puddle by the roadside—haggard, dull, and her short hair made her look somewhat disheveled. She couldn't refute it.

Haha. She smiled bitterly to herself. Indeed, she wasn't good enough for him.

She returned home, washed herself clean, changed into a new outfit her mother had bought for her before, sat in front of her mother's dressing table, trying to hide the fatigue on her face and make her short hair look as neat as possible. Then, she went to see the Chancellor of the Exchequer's nephew.

The nephew leaned against the ornate doorframe, a playful smile on his lips, "Oh? Isn't this our proud 'Golden Knight'? What happened to that attitude of rejecting me before?"

Her nails dug deeply into her palms as she lowered her head. "I'm sorry... I was rude before... Please..."

"Beg me?" her nephew interrupted, his smile wicked. "How about this? If you kneel before my gates for a full day and night, I'll consider your 'request'."

She looked up abruptly, staring at him in disbelief.

She still knelt down.

Beside the most bustling street in the Royal Capital, before the polished, yet cold as iron stone steps of the residence of the Minister of Finance's nephew.

The chill of early spring seeped through the cold knight's knee pads, piercing to the bone, as if Frozen her dignity along with them. The gazes of passersby were like needles pricking her back. She held her head high, her eyes vacantly staring ahead, as if her soul had been ripped from this humiliated body. Only her ramrod straight back retained the last, laughable stubbornness of a knight, like a tattered flag refusing to fall completely.

Why was it that Gwenhild, even after selling her cherished golden hair, still couldn't afford her mother's long-term, expensive medicine? Why was she just the daughter of a lowly commoner knight, with no other bargaining chip besides herself?

Between her father's silent and pained gaze and her mother's increasingly weak breathing, she had long since run out of choices.

At last.

Gwenhild silently removed the stone bracelet from her wrist, a gift from Aidan, still warm from his body heat, seemingly carrying the lingering winds of the wilderness and a fleeting illusion of freedom. In its place was an engagement ring, exquisitely crafted yet as heavy as shackles, sent by the Chancellor of the Exchequer's nephew. The ring was heavy, constricting her finger like an invisible chain.

She sneered inwardly, "Not bad at all, at least he's willing to give me some face instead of treating me like a dog. Whether it's because his 'fiancée' can't look too shabby or not, it doesn't matter."

The mother's holy water supply was restored, and the father no longer had to sleep on the cold corridor floor; the church arranged a bed for him, and he was no longer driven away.

His life was saved for now.

The father looked at her, forcing a smile, and repeatedly said, "Thank you... I'm sorry you had to go through all this... my daughter..."

But in his eyes, there was no joy, only a bottomless sorrow, like a cold pool in winter, reflecting no light. The warmth that once clung to his wrist was now just an empty memory, and the weight of a cold gemstone.

Aidan.

"Um?"

"This was given to you by a knight from the Royal Capital. He said it's some kind of Sound Recording Magic. Anyway, take it." He handed him a conch shell.

Aidan returned home.

"Aidan, where are you? What are you doing?"

"Aidan, I actually quite enjoy listening to your silly stories."

"Aidan, will you come to see me?"

"Aidan, I haven't forgotten our promise, nor have I forgotten your birthday. You must be disappointed. I'm sorry, I'm not worthy of being a knight, nor am I worthy of your affection."

"I... Aidan, I'm sorry, forget about me."

The above is from [a possible timeline - the days when Heiter is no longer there].

Reality.

A warm, soft green light flowed from Heiter's broad palms, gently enveloping Iris. The tormenting signs of crystal precipitation melted and subsided visibly under this vibrant light.

The pained expression on Iris's face eased, her breathing became steady and long, and she fell into a peaceful sleep.

"Alright," Heiter withdrew his hand, casually wiped it on his priest's robe, and laughed, "What Crystal Disease? It just sounds scary. A few days of rest and I'll be fine, I guarantee you'll be lively and energetic again."

Gwenhild stared blankly at her mother's peaceful sleeping face, then at the man before her—a man of unrestrained bearing, so unlike the solemn figure of a bishop, yet possessing incredible power—and her eyes welled up slightly. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her voice steady. "Heiter, Bishop Highta..."

"No need to thank me, it's nothing!" Heiter waved his hand dismissively.

Gwenhild turned her back, her fingertips lightly touching the rough yet warm stone bracelet on her wrist.

"His birthday is coming up soon, isn't it?"

"If this guy doesn't tell me he loves me soon, I'll teach him a lesson about the power of the Golden Knight of Lotharn."

"Hey!"

The wooden target in the training field snapped in two.