Knight and Squire
Snow
The riders came unto the keep beneath a sky of slate, the last light of day bleeding into dusk. Their mounts, lathered and weary, slowed as the stone walls rose before them—grim and ancient, etched with moss and memory. No horn was sounded. No herald called. They dismounted in silence, boots striking flagstone with the weight of miles and mourning.
Fourth stepped the stable hands, clad in wool and leather, their faces solemn, their motions