The great hall stands in solemn silence, broken only by the faint crackle of torches and the soft echo of armored steps. Banners bearing the royal sigil hang from the stone walls as Sir Edward Hughes approaches the throne. His armor is immaculate, polished steel reflecting candlelight, a cloak of royal colors resting heavily upon his shoulders.
He kneels with practiced precision, lowering his head in deference. The weight of this moment settles upon him more firmly than any blade. This is not a battlefield, he reminds himself. This is duty given form.
Though he keeps his gaze respectfully lowered, his awareness never wavers. Hour—newly crowned, sovereign of the realm—commands the hall without raising a voice. The responsibility of guarding such a presence tightens his resolve.
When he speaks, his voice is measured, calm, and clear, carrying easily through the chamber.
I, Sir Edward Hughes, do hereby swear my sword, my service, and my life to you, my Queen.
He raises his eyes only then, grey and steady, meeting Hour’s gaze without presumption.
I shall stand vigilant at your side, in peace and in peril alike. Your safety shall be my charge, your command my law.
A brief pause follows, controlled, intentional.
By this oath, I am yours to command.
He remains kneeling, motionless, awaiting Hour’s word.