"Come on! Get your lazy asses down here!!"
The commander's bark cracked through the morning air like a whip, sharp and grating. One by one, the prisoners descended from the carriage, their shackles singing a grim chorus of iron with each movement. Chains rattled. Boots struck stone. No words were spoken—just the sound of men and beasts who knew judgment awaited.
The boy stumbled last, blinking at the light, his pale hair catching the early sun like silver thread. A firm hand caught him by the arm—not rough, but far from kind.
"Hold on." The commander narrowed his eyes. "You're not one of them."
The boy turned his head, and met the gaze of those he'd shared the night with. One by one, the prisoners glanced back at him, some with suspicion, others with silent farewell. And then, wordlessly, they were herded away—toward the far side of the courtyard, where stone stairs climbed like a spine into the heart of the citadel.
"Hey! Move it!" one of the guards barked, shoving the last of the line forward.
The boy remained, caught between worlds—neither prisoner nor free. The commander gave him a curt nod, then motioned him forward, boots echoing as they marched across the flagstones.
"We're meeting the king." The commander's voice dropped low, grave with importance. "Once you're in that hall, you bow with the rest. Don't make me remind you."
The boy gave a small nod, but his eyes were drawn upward.
Above them loomed the high towers of the castle—dark stone monoliths that scraped the sky, rimmed with crimson banners that snapped in the wind. Upon each flag, stitched in golden thread, was the sigil of the empire: a dancing griffin, talons raised, wings unfurled, captured in a moment of eternal defiance. The black field behind it drank the light, rimmed with blood-red trim, as if even the fabric bled for Triton.
This was the heart of the Empire. The throne of the Conquerors. A place where mercy was weighed by the blade, and lives were measured in blood and service.
And here he was—nameless, memory fractured, a ghost in borrowed armor—about to stand before its king.
Upon crossing the threshold, the boy was struck with awe—not that he let it show. His crimson eyes, now dulled with weariness and confusion, darted across the vast interior, soaking in its grandeur.
Vaulted ceilings stretched impossibly high above, gilded with intricate carvings of battles long past—griffins tearing through dragons, knights slaying titans, and the epic visage of a crowned warrior smiting the earth with a blade wreathed in flame. Stained glass windows lined the upper walls, casting fractured beams of colored light across the marble floor, which bore the polish of centuries. Columns like trees of stone held up the chamber, each wrapped in banners of conquest and etched with ancient oaths in forgotten tongues.
The air was heavy, not with dust, but with reverence and power.
Yet despite all of this, it was not the throne, nor the majesty of the hall that drew the eyes of the assembled knights and nobles.
It was him.
As he walked, the boy felt their stares. Courtiers whispered behind gloved hands, their voices hushed but sharp, like daggers glancing off armor.
"Is that...?"
"But he—"
He didn't understand why they looked at him with such mixture of awe and uncertainty. He kept his gaze low, his expression carefully blank, unwilling to appear ignorant, unwilling to seem weak.
Then came the final doors—massive, adorned with gold and black iron, depicting the founding of the Tritonian Empire, with the First King gripping a griffin's reins in one hand and a sword that split the heavens in the other.
They creaked open, slow and thunderous, revealing the throne room beyond.
The carpet beneath their feet was deep red, as if perpetually stained with blood. Torchlight flickered along the walls, where statues of past kings loomed in silent judgment. At the far end, upon a dais of dark stone, stood the throne itself—ornate, massive, made of obsidian and rimmed in steel. Upon it sat the king.
He was a man carved of iron, his features young and regal, with a crown like a circlet of knives upon his brow. His eyes, cold and sharp, watched as the procession approached.
The commander stopped, knelt, and bowed low.
"Greetings, Your Majesty." His voice echoed through the chamber, firm and unwavering. "We have now arrived, after the long quest you have given us."
The boy followed suit, dropping to one knee, lowering his head. He dared not look at the king. His breath came slow, controlled, but his heart thundered in his chest. He was keenly aware of the silence that followed—long, thick, uncomfortable.
And in that silence, he wondered—
Why were they all looking at him?
"M... my liege..." one of the courtiers breathed, barely louder than a whisper. His voice trembled with disbelief as his gaze locked on the white-haired boy kneeling at the center of the chamber.
The king did not turn to him, nor raise his hand to hush the murmur. His reply was quiet—yet it carried through the vaulted throne room like a thunderclap.
"I know."
The court fell into a thick silence. The torches lining the walls flickered as if recoiling from his voice.
Then, rising from his throne, the King of Triton descended a single step. His presence was a storm clad in velvet, and his voice rang with the gravity of a ruler who bore both crown and blood-stained blade.
"I welcome you back, Hunters of Triton," he declared, his gaze now fixed upon the commander who knelt closest. "For your service, your loyalty, and your triumph—I shall grant you honor... and the fortune you've earned."
The knights bowed lower, but even in that moment of praise, the king's eyes were drawn elsewhere. Toward the boy.
"But I see," the king continued, voice slower now, colder, "that you have brought another."
The weight of his gaze struck the boy like a hammer. Still kneeling, he felt the king's attention coil around him—measured, piercing, dangerous. His breathing tightened, and he pressed his hands to the marble floor to hide the trembling in his arms. He dared not lift his head.
The commander cleared his throat, rising slightly. "We brought him for he—"
A single raised hand silenced him.
The king stepped forward another pace, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "What is your name, boy?"
The boy flinched. The question echoed in his ears, bouncing inside his hollow mind like a ghost searching for its anchor. He opened his mouth, but no words came. No name surfaced. Nothing felt familiar—only the echo of fire, the sting of pain, and the cold silence of death.
His lips parted, and in a voice fragile as smoke, he answered:
"I... I don't know, Your Majesty."
A hush fell once more, heavier than before. The court watched in frozen anticipation. The king's expression did not change—but the air grew still, tense, as though the hall itself held its breath.
And the boy, nameless and trembling, remained on his knees beneath the shadow of a throne that knew far too much.
"Look at me," the king commanded, his voice sharp and cold as steel.
The boy hesitated, but his body obeyed before his mind could resist. Slowly, his chin lifted, and for the first time, his crimson eyes met those of the monarch.
The king was not as old as he had imagined—perhaps in his early thirties. Yet there was a depth in his gaze that far exceeded his years. Draped in a velvet mantle stitched with gold and edged in black, the king stood like a statue carved from dignity and fire. His presence was undeniable—both regal and merciless. A ruler forged in war, and feared for good reason.
For a moment, the silence between them was absolute.
Then, the king spoke again—calmly, yet with a subtle weight that seemed to settle over every soul in the chamber.
"Very well... Do you wish to obtain a name?"
The words struck the boy harder than any accusation. A name? He thought he was to be condemned like the others. The question caught him unguarded, spinning the world around him into further disarray.
"I..." he stammered, lips dry, throat tight. "I don't understand..."
The king's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but scrutiny. "You stand in my court wearing Tritonian steel. You breathe while others lie rotting. And still, the gods saw fit to wipe your name clean. That makes you a curiosity, not a criminal."
A pause. The king's voice lowered.
"How do you like the name... Vincent?"
The moment the word left his mouth, a wave of gasps and murmurs swept through the throne room. Even the commander stiffened, wide-eyed, turning slightly toward the boy—now Vincent.
The boy—Vincent—blinked, unable to speak. His thoughts spiraled. Why was everyone reacting like this? Why did that name seem to echo with weight, as though the king had carved it from some forgotten legend?
What is going on...? he thought, a storm of confusion tightening in his chest.
And still the king watched him, unmoving, as though waiting for the boy to either accept... or remember.
"A... as you wish... y-your Majesty," the boy—no, Vincent—stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper as he bowed his head once more.
The king watched him for a moment longer, then smirked faintly, his gaze shifting to the knight standing beside him.
"Commander Arthur," the king said, his voice carrying through the vast throne room like a command etched in stone. "I wish for you to take this boy into your ranks. Train him, mold him—as you have done before."
Before?
The word lingered in Vincent's mind, echoing with strange familiarity. Had this happened before? Had someone like him been here in the same way? The uncertainty gnawed at him, but he remained still.
"I shall obey, my liege," Commander Arthur replied, his voice steady, eyes flicking toward Vincent with a mixture of curiosity and silent understanding.
The king rose slightly, his mantle cascading like a wave of blood and shadow around his frame. With a motion, he extended his hand toward a nearby guard. The armored knight stepped forward and presented his blade—polished, ceremonial, its edge gleaming in the throne room's golden light.
"Vincent," the king declared, gripping the sword's hilt. "From this moment onward, you will serve Triton not as a prisoner nor a wanderer, but as one of her knights."
He stepped forward, raising the sword.
"You will obey your commander," he continued, the blade now hovering over Vincent's shoulder. "You will fight as your brothers do. You will hunt beasts born of the abyss. And in time, you will descend into the depths of Thau'ron's lair, and cleanse this world of its shadow."
The flat of the blade tapped lightly against Vincent's left shoulder, then his right—each contact like thunder in his mind.
"Rise, Vincent of Triton," the king said at last. "Knight of the Crimson Flame."
Gasps rang again through the court. Commander Arthur straightened, his eyes sharpening.
Vincent... remained still for a heartbeat, barely able to breathe.
And then—he rose.
---
Yesterday, I was in a car crash. The vehicle exploded... with me still inside.
And now—now I'm a knight in a world I don't even recognize.
Vincent's mind swirled with confusion and disbelief as he lay on the soft, ornate bed, dressed in a loose poet's shirt that clung gently to his form. The silken sheets and golden fixtures of the chamber felt like something from a dream—or a delusion.
I can still hear the driver screaming at me to get out... but the seatbelt was stuck. I couldn't feel my legs anymore...
His thoughts weighed heavy as he sat up slowly, brushing a hand across his face. "Is this really hell? Or... have I...?" he muttered, then trailed off. "That's impossible."
Still doubtful of his own reality, he reached up and pinched his cheek. The sharp sting made his face twitch in pain.
"...Ow."
Not convinced, he raised both hands and gave himself a good slap across the face. The sound echoed in the quiet chamber.
"Sss—oww!" he hissed, rubbing his reddening cheek.
The pain was real. The room was real. And he... was still here.
In the dimly lit corridors of the castle, the sound of boots echoed off the stone walls as the king strode forward, his royal mantle trailing behind him. At his side walked his most trusted adviser, a gaunt man draped in formal robes, his hands clasped before him.
"The Grangers will come soon to retrieve their boy's body, Your Majesty," the adviser said carefully, his voice edged with concern. "If they find the casket empty, it will break them. And worse, it will raise questions."
The king didn't break stride. "Then we give them an answer," he replied coldly. "Tell them the body of my beloved nephew was disfigured beyond recognition. Nothing remained."
The adviser flinched at the bluntness. "He was your brother's son, your nephew, my liege. If Duke Vanheilm learns of this excuse, it may cause deep grief... and strain the ties between the Crown and the duchies under his influence."
The king finally stopped and turned his head slightly, eyes sharp. "Let me handle my brother."
"hahh, as you say my liege", the adviser says, still in deep concern.