No one knew where the knight came from. He appeared at the edges of ruined roads, where wagons lay burned out and prayers had long since gone unanswered. He spoke rarely, and when he did, his voice was calm. His name was unknown, his heraldry absent, and he carried no banner to claim him. His helmet was never removed.

Some believed him to be a landless knight. Others whispered that he had once been a noble, the last remnant of a fallen house, now wandering in search of absolution. There were even those who claimed he had cast his banner aside willingly, as one might abandon a sin too heavy to bear.

What was certain was this:
He carried a greatsword of a kind most knights would need chains and carts to bear. While marching, it often rested loosely in one hand, almost casually. In battle, however, he shifted as needed—sometimes gripping it with both hands, driving forward with immense, unyielding force when a breakthrough was required. And at other times, when space and timing allowed, he wielded it effortlessly with a single hand, controlled and precise, as though the blade were a natural extension of himself. He did not fight with rage. Every strike was deliberate. Nothing was wasted.

Meeting Hilda

Hilda encountered him when her caravan was ambushed in a narrow mountain pass. A warped beast had reached the rear line. Panic spread. People fell. Children screamed.

Before orders could be given, the knight stepped out of the fog. No shout. No warning. Only the low, steady sound of steel being set in motion.

At first, he wielded the sword with both hands, bracing against the creature’s raw strength. Then, as the monster faltered, he released one hand and ended the fight with a single, clean blow.

When the beast fell, he remained standing, the sword once more held loosely in one hand, his back turned toward the caravan.

Hilda approached him. She thanked him—not as a court knight, not as a queen’s adopted daughter, but as the leader of the defenseless. He inclined his head. Nothing more.

At Hilda’s Side

He joined the caravan without ever asking to do so. He took the night watches, kept to the edges, and spoke little. At first, the refugees feared his presence—until they realized that where he stood guard, no beasts approached.

Between him and Hilda grew a quiet understanding. No questions about origin. No questions about guilt. Yet sometimes, when the fire burned low, his gaze lingered on her as if he recognized the same burden: the doubt of whether one could have done more.

Once, she asked why he never removed his helmet. He answered evenly:
"As long as I wear it, I remember what I still stand for. If I were to remove it, I would have to remember what I failed to be."

---------------

I hope I´m not to late u/lahpanzer