The knight rose from where he kneeled before the throne. An assignment had been given, a task the monarch dared only to entrust to the most senior of their guard, the knight who had proven himself countless times in war-time and in peace; the knight clad in armour the colour of rich ink and an ivory cloak that billowed behind him; the knight who never spoke and always obeyed.
It was also the knight that was an outsider. The knight incessantly surrounded by whispers speaking of how the shame of his common heritage was so great that he covered his face to not embarrass his masters, or because he was cursed to be hideous by the same witch who granted him prestige and rank. Even some that said he had no face at all, and that the skull carapace affixed to his head was an ill omen for what lay underneath.
Even now, the castle staff gave him a wide berth as he strode through grand stone halls, his footfalls echoing with purpose. Their heads were bowed as if afraid; the knight paid them no mind, cutting through as a fin through water. Behind him, the staff amassed in an eddying current of uneasiness, murmuring amongst themselves, bewildered that the crown would allow such a being close to their spawn. Did they not heed the visage of death within their very walls? Were they under the influence of black magic, trapped within their own bodies, forced to do as the pale undertaker bade? The knight pressed on until it became senseless noise behind him.
The household staff dwindled in number as the knight approached his destination — either instructed to vacate, or simply by chance, he did not know. His idle interest did not sway him, and as he came to a halt at his journey's end, he stared down at the doorhandle, a pale blue lace looped around it, tied in place.
The knight glanced either direction, knowing he would spy no other such occurrence, but doing so anyway. His eyes returned to the lace secured to the handle, and without further delay, the knight lifted his knuckles to rap sharply thrice against the door, as he'd been told.
A pause — then swiftly, the oak swung in, and the knight immediately gazed upon a wooden table hastily pulled to the centre of the room, haphazardly surrounded by stools of mismatched height. The squire stepped aside silently, returning to his post against the wall on the inside of the door. The knight did not spare a glance toward the squire, focused on the diminutive figure that sprung to their feet from the stool they'd occupied, just as overt in their gawking at the newcomer.
The stillness lengthened. She is but a child, the knight thought to himself, his eyes settling on the frilly lace affixing her hair into a braid, the same lace that had announced her presence at the door.
Then with a start, the girl sharply inhaled, as if remembering something. She scurried toward the centre of the room, bypassing the table, and dipped into a curtsy before the knight.
"Greetings, good sir," she asserted, gazing back up at him from where her eyes had skimmed the floorboards in her gesture, and the knight was again struck by the youthfulness in her voice, rooted to where he stood in his incredulity. "I presume you are the royal knight my pa— the king and queen consort enjoined to my protection?"
The knight seemed to shake himself from his stupor after a few more moments of silence, stepping into the room, bending his head when passing the threshold so as to not collide with its wooden frame.
"Verily," the knight rumbled, pausing as he witnessed the girl's eyes widen. He continued, lowering his voice to a murmur: "I was informed of my charge moments ago, princess royal."
"Excellent," she declared after a small pause, her face having contorted into one of concentration at his words; it was certainly due to his unfamiliar accent.
A quiet again descended over them. She fidgeted under his unbroken stare, choosing to again interrupt it. "Might I learn who I shall be depending on to ensure my safety?"
The knight bent to drop to a knee, the plates of his armour clinking against each other with the movement. He lowered his head to stare toward the floor, eyes fixing on a particular swirl of grain in the wood.
"I bear only the name their majesties have generously granted me," he replied. "I am known as Saint. No family name."
A pair of slippers tiptoed into his vision, coming to a stop in front of him. The knight kept his head lowered, eyes still trained on the floor.
"Lift your face, Sir Saint."
Saint did as instructed, and was astonished by how close her face was to his own — the princess leaning forward, supporting herself with her hands on her knees, in a very unladylike manner. However, Saint held his tongue, meeting the girl's gaze. She seemed to study him for a moment before nodding to herself, leaning back, arms crossing low and loose over her stomach.
"Family name or not, if you are the one entrusted, then you are the one I will trust as well. Likely for the best, given we will be learning much about each other in the following cycles."