Chapter 1: The Proposition

A single flickering candle cast a frail glow over the dank, stone walls of the dungeon, barely illuminating the shadows that clung to every corner. The narrow corridor echoed with the steady, heavy footsteps of a pair of guards, their armor clinking softly as they walked. The air was thick with the stench of dampness and decay, a reminder of the souls locked away here, forgotten by the world above.

The guards finally stopped in front of a cell door, barred with rusted iron. Inside, Roman Miller lay on the cold floor, the former family man who had lost everything. His clothes were torn and dirty, and his once-vibrant eyes were hollowed by grief and exhaustion. One of the guards sneered, banging on the bars to wake him.

"Oi, get up," the guard barked, his voice harsh in the oppressive silence. "The council wants to see you. Your execution’s been postponed." He slid the heavy key into the lock, swinging the cell door open with a loud creak before striding in and roughly kicking Roman awake. "Scum," he muttered with disgust as Roman stirred, his groggy eyes adjusting to the dim light.

Truth be told, Roman wasn’t asleep. When the bars of his cell rattled and a gruff voice called out to him, he didn’t need to be kicked awake, and the guards knew that. They always knew. They just didn’t care. The family-man turned degenerate never did much sleeping anymore. Instead, he’d lay awake and stare at the moldy ceiling, refusing to close his eyes as if afraid of the images painted within his eyelids. There must have been a time when he had nice dreams, but he couldn’t remember it if so. When they were alive, perhaps? He never wanted to do much sleeping in those days, lest he miss his boy’s first steps or words.

With a groan, Roman flipped on to his stomach, his ribs aching both from the beating they just laid upon him as well as the one they’d given him the week prior. Each guard took an arm and hoisted the giant up to his feet. He didn’t struggle or respond in the slightest. His eyes were far away, imagining some reality separate from his own where everything had gone differently. It wasn’t until they bound his wrists and dragged him into the corridor that the events registered within his mind.

“Post…poned..?” he echoed the words, his eyes despondent and yet his tone almost… Excited? Relieved?

Roman had no reason to live, and yet, he didn’t want to die. No matter how bad it got, dying had never registered as an option. Within him, he carried the last vestige of his family, parts of them that they had entrusted with him. Their memories, their hope, their love. His own perishing meant that his family would truly be dead, less than a memory. The very thought made his fists clench, something that was rewarded with a swift strike to the back of his head. They were so insistent on beating him into utter submission. “Yeah,” one of the guards hawked, shoving their prisoner forward. “Postponed. Now move!”

Meanwhile, in the grand council chamber, a heated debate raged. A large, circular table dominated the room, surrounded by ten elder council members, each clad in flowing robes of crimson and gold. The chamber was a stark contrast to the grim dungeon below, with polished marble floors and tall stained-glass windows depicting the kingdom’s history in vivid detail. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting colorful patterns on the floor, but the mood inside was anything but serene.

One of the younger councilmen, a man barely in his thirties with a clean-shaven face and a look of barely contained fury, stood, his voice trembling with disbelief. “Are you insane, Elder? You want to place a killer at the queen’s side? Have you forgotten who this man is?”

The elder at the head of the table, a man with a long silver beard and piercing eyes that seemed to see into the very soul, raised a hand for silence. He spoke slowly, his voice calm yet commanding, the kind of voice that brooked no argument. “Yes, Roman Miller is no innocent,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over the council members. “But he is a man who has known suffering in its rawest form. His family was stolen from him, and grief has consumed him ever since. Who better to serve our queen than someone who understands her pain?”

The council chamber fell silent, the other members exchanging wary glances. The elder continued, his tone unwavering, “The queen has been isolated for too long. She endures her curse in silence, watching as those around her perish one by one. She needs someone by her side who understands loss, someone who does not fear death, because he has already faced it in every way that matters.”

Another councilman, older and grizzled, shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. “This is madness,” he muttered, though he did not dare to speak louder. The council, divided and uneasy, shifted in their seats, each of them wrestling with the gravity of the decision before them.

The elder straightened, his gaze intense. “All those in favor of appointing Roman Miller as the queen’s guard, raise your hands.”

A long, tense silence stretched across the chamber. The council members hesitated, some glancing at each other, others staring at the table in deep thought. Then, slowly, hands began to rise, one by one, until six of the ten members had raised their hands. The decision was made.

“So it is decided,” the elder pronounced, his voice solemn, a sense of finality settling over the room. “Roman Miller will serve as the queen’s protector. He will live out his days by her side, a guardian bound by both duty and fate.”

As the council members filed out of the chamber, the elder lingered, his eyes resting on the empty chair where Roman would soon sit. He knew the choice was controversial, that the kingdom would whisper of treachery and madness. But he believed, in the depths of his heart, that Roman was the one person who could look into the queen’s eyes and see not a curse, but a woman suffering under the weight of an unbearable destiny...

The walk to the council’s chambers felt as if he were climbing the stairway to heaven. Each heavy step nearly made him stumble, but a will to survive (and a pointy stick occasionally jabbing his back) kept him moving. Eventually, he stood before two mighty, massive doors. Both loomed over him, their golden intricacies seeming to stare back at him from their regal position before parting and giving way to the most important room in the kingdom. Roman was shoved forward again, the natural light from the windows causing him to squint, lest it burn his maladjusted retina.

“Easy,” one of the councilmen spoke in what he thought was a comforting voice, but was in actuality a rather commanding one, “You’re safe here. Among friends. Would you like some bread?”

Roman, understandably weary, approached the table where all the men sat. He didn’t recognize a single one of them, and yet immediately understood their importance. The table’s center was adorned with fresh foods the likes of which he’d never seen before. Freshly seared meats, ripe fruit, and bread that still wafted steam. Hesitantly, he reached out and clutched a roll between his restrained hands, lifting it to his lips and nibbling the tiniest of bits. It…wasn’t stale. The man nearly began to tear up, and probably would have had he not immediately begun devouring the food with such haste that it was a miracle he didn’t choke.

“See? We’re friends,” another councilman spoke.

“Friends with a killer,” mumbled another, younger man, who was immediately silenced by his compatriots’ stares.

“Now, Mister Miller, we have a proposition for you. We offer you…freedom, or more freedom than you currently possess, at least. You’ll be free from chains, and free to wander the palace, though you can’t leave entirely without supervision—”

“DEAL!” Roman shouted, leaning forward and pressing his palms against the table. He was panting from his speed-eating, resisting the urge to vomit from stuffing his starving stomach so swiftly.

“N-Now, hold on—”

“Anything you need, anything at all,” he almost sounded like he was pleading. A man ravaged through confinement, who was certain his only freedom would be the afterlife, saw his opportunity. He needed it more than anything else. Somewhere he could rest his head without being chastised by horrible onlookers. The councilmen all exchanged glances, concern wafting over some of the previously convinced expressions. Perhaps freeing a man so desperate wasn’t ideal.

“You will be made a knight,” the eldest clarified, “A knight in charge of protecting Her Royal Highness.”

The news sank in at once. Right… They had said postponed. He was still due to be executed, just not hanging from the gallows, but rather as a soulless corpse lying on the court's floor. His expression faded back into familiarity. Into that cold Hell he’d always known. His lips pursed, his eyes softened, and reality quickly set in. There was a long pause, a silence that haunted the room like the most ghastly of specters.

“Deal” he eventually agreed again. If it was a choice between dying now and dying later, then the choice to him seemed obvious.