A knight in town
The knight walked through the village, his steps heavy, his body yearning for rest. The air was filled with laughter, with music, with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine. It was a night of joy, a celebration of life. Yet none knew how close they had come to death.
As he passed a narrow alley, he noticed a child crouched beside a pile of old stones. The boy, no older than six, giggled as he rolled a rounded object between his hands. When the knight stepped closer, the dim torchlight revealed what it truly was: a skull, bleached white with age, its empty sockets gazing into nothingness.
The child, unaware of its grim nature, balanced it on the ground and laughed. "Look! A new toy!" he called out, his voice bright with innocence. A woman, likely his mother, glanced over and smiled, offering no reprimand, no concern. To them, it was nothing more than a discarded relic of a past that held no meaning.
The knight turned away, his hands tightening into fists. These people did not remember. They did not care. The dead were nothing but echoes lost to time, their warnings ignored, their suffering erased.
Further down the street, he passed a well-dressed couple leaning against a wooden post, engaged in casual conversation. The man gestured animatedly, speaking of old legends and forgotten kings. "They say the tombs in the hills hold ancient curses," he scoffed, chuckling. "That the dead rise to punish the living. But really, these are just old superstitions. No one truly believes in such nonsense."
The woman laughed in agreement, resting a hand on his shoulder. "People love their ghost stories. It makes the world feel more interesting, I suppose. But the past is dead. It holds no power over us."
The endless loneliness
The knight’s breath was slow, controlled. They did not believe. They would never know how close the past had come to swallowing them whole. They lived in their blissful ignorance, untouched by the horrors that lurked beyond their feasting halls.
He had fought, bled, endured, so that they could smile and mock the very shadows he had banished. And in their eyes, he did not exist. No recognition. No gratitude. Not even fear.
As he stood in the midst of their celebrations, the truth settled upon him with a weight heavier than his armor. His solitude was not born from the darkness or the creatures lurking within it.
It came from the hearts of men.
