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"Tempting the Knight"
by Raul O. Stool
Daggerpoint loomed through the mist like a carcass.
Its towers were broken teeth against the sky. Moss choked the stone. Torches flickered behind arrow slits, but their light barely reached the courtyard. Fog had swallowed the place whole.
Sarra stepped down from her horse, boots sinking into the slush. She didn’t shiver, though the cold had long since soaked through her cloak. The wind tasted like ash. Or memory.
“Stay close, Princess,” her guard murmured.
She ignored him.
Let the North think she was fragile. Let them think she came as bait, or tribute, or a pet southern mouthpiece.
Let them be wrong.
The gates groaned open.
She stepped through alone.
Daggerpoint hadn’t changed. Still ruinous. Still haunted. Soldiers paced the upper walls, eyes dull from too many winters. Somewhere, a raven cawed.
And there he was.
Torv stood at the far end of the yard, one hand on the hilt of his sword, red cloak dark with rain. He hadn’t moved. He didn’t need to.
His presence hit like the first blow of a duel—loud, sudden, unmistakable.
“Torv,” she said.
He didn’t smile.
“You weren’t invited.”
Sarra tilted her head. “You signed the summons.”
“I summoned envoys. Advisors. Not ghosts.”
“I’m not here to haunt you.”
“No?” His voice was flint on stone. “Then why do I feel twelve years old again—bleeding from the mouth, swearing I'd never look back?”
Sarra took a slow step forward. “Because you always were dramatic.”
That earned him—nothing. No twitch of the mouth. No glimmer of warmth.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Because your banner is bleeding the border dry. Because if this war drags on another winter, neither side will have enough grain to bury the dead. Because—”
She exhaled. “Because I was tired of waiting for someone else to end it.”
He looked at her like she was a knife he thought he’d thrown away.
“I told you not to follow me.”
“And I told you I don’t take orders.”
A silence stretched between them. Not empty—loaded. With old wounds. Unwritten letters. Nights spent awake on opposite ends of a dying world.
At last, he spoke.
“You sound like your father.”
“I was hoping I’d sound like you.”
Torv stepped down from the platform, slow and deliberate. The wind pulled at his cloak. He didn’t stop until they stood a blade’s length apart.
“You think one conversation ends Farcastles?” he said.
“No. But it might end us.”
That stopped him.
“You think we’re still a ‘we’?”
Her voice was steady. “I think we never stopped being.”
He studied her face. Carefully. Like it might vanish if he blinked.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said, softly now. “This place—it ruins things.”
“I’m not afraid of ruin.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Sarra stepped closer. “Or I remember who you were before this war turned your heart into a ledger.”
Torv’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Then tell me.”
His hand rose halfway, fingers trembling like they’d forgotten how to reach for anything soft. He stopped himself. Dropped it.
“Say the word,” he murmured. “Tell me to go. Or tell me to stay.”
Sarra didn’t flinch. “I’m done giving you permission.”
And then—he kissed her.
It wasn’t tender.
It was desperate. Rusted. A mouth remembering another life. Her hands found his cloak, fists clenched tight as if letting go would kill her.
Then—
A shout. Metal on stone. The high alarm bell peeled once across the yard.
Torv tore away. “Trouble.”
Sarra reached for her dagger. “Of course.”
Because nothing born of Farcastles ever came easy.
Not peace.
Not love.
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