Roel cursed his bad luck and gave a low bow. “Forgive me for intruding on your privacy, Your Majesty. I got lost on my way from the banquet.”

“So, you stumbled across the royal chambers?” The king still hadn’t turned his way. “And the banquet finished two hours ago, did it not?”

“Did it really? Perhaps I had too much to drink.” Roel pretended to sound embarrassed. He had to pivot the conversation. Fast. “I don’t mean to offend, but is it safe for Your Majesty to be out on your own like this?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Roel waited for the king to say more, but he didn’t. “If you so desire it, I can stand guard.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll be heading back soon.” The king finally faced him, and Roel thought he saw a somberness on the king’s face. He averted his eyes to the ground, but when he glanced upwards, the king’s expression was in its usual scowl. “I heard my daughter caused you trouble.”

“Not at all. She was an excellent conversationalist.”

“I know you would never take advantage of her, Sir Roel.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty.” Roel hoped that the king couldn’t detect the nervousness in his voice.

“I must warn you, though. Your caution might be misplaced. I fear that she might most resemble my father.” There was something hard in the king’s tone. “You’re young, but I know you were also ordained at a young age. How long did you serve under him?”

“Eight years, Your Majesty.” Roel suppressed a shudder at the mention of the previous king. “He was a wise and decisive ruler.”

“Is that so?” The king’s expression gave nothing away. “Well, it is fortunate that we have met here tonight. I was going to send a messenger to your room in the morning, but now it is unnecessary. Tomorrow, you will report to the throne room at noon to receive your next assignment.”

“Ah.” Roel tried to hold back his surprise. There was no schedule as some missions could take a day whereas others could take months, but it was rare to receive another assignment so soon after finishing one.

“I understand it is sudden. We were going to send someone else, but your arrival was fortuitous. Furthermore, your reputation and your most recent accomplishment makes you the perfect candidate. You’ll understand tomorrow.”

“I trust your judgment above all else, Your Majesty.”

“I will be heading back now then. As for your room, go down the hall until you reach the staircase. Climb the stairs, and it’ll be directly on your right.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Did you want me to escort you back to your room?”

“No, Sir Roel. Get some rest.”

Roel stood in place, watching the king walk away, and when he turned the corner and disappeared, he breathed a long sigh of relief. Extended conversations with three members of royalty in a single day. The peasants might see that as a sign of good luck, but Roel thought it was just good luck that his head was still attached to his body.

A sudden exhaustion overtook him. He invoked some of the Lord’s Favor to assuage it, but nothing happened. He didn’t know what he was expecting. It never worked; the Lord’s Favor could only strengthen the body. With a yawn, he headed back to his room.

He woke up at the crack of dawn. His body always forced him awake like that. For a while, he lay in bed, listening to the soft footsteps of servants walking down the hall. It always relieved him to know that there were others around him, beings independent from himself that required nothing from him. At least for now.

He stayed in his room all morning. It would be a hassle to walk around the palace or the capital and deal with the gawkers. That was why he often preferred carriages; he was the one doing the gawking. He had his breakfast – a thick meat stew and a pint of ale – delivered to him.

When there was an hour left until his meeting at the throne room, he started to get dressed. Everything he wore, from his armor to his boots, was carefully designed to make him appear taller and bulkier.

First, he put on his gambeson, which was thickly padded with horsehair and hid the girdle he wore underneath that straightened his posture and thus made him look taller. Next was the plate armor that had been forged with his gambeson in mind and accentuated the broadness of his body. The inside of his leather boots revealed that the soles were thicker than they outwardly appeared and were sloped in a similar manner to heels to give him some extra height.

He always felt a pervasive shame as he dressed. He was taller than most, but the problem was that his body frame was lean with little body fat. He tried to eat more and train more, but it never worked. He simultaneously thought his insecurities were ridiculous and crucial.

Without his whole outfit, it felt like he was disappointing everyone who would see him. They expected a hero, didn’t they? What would a boy like Charlie think if he saw him as he truly was? Surely, he would be disappointed.

After all, when Roel was a kid, the image he had in his mind of a Divine Paladin was someone who was bulky and rugged. A man in a suit of armor who wielded a legendary sword and toppled mountain ranges with a single swing. His personality would be a contradiction: humble but boastful when he had the upper hand, gentle but merciless when his honor was threatened, and an all-powerful underdog that had to prove his strength at every turn.

So, when he first learned he had been granted the Lord’s Favor, he had tried his best to live up to his ideal. To compensate at the time, he scrounged together some scrap armor, and always wore a helmet to hide his youthfulness and the scraggly beard he was trying to grow. Looking back, he couldn’t blame Lady Romane, the paladin who had overseen his training, for laughing at him.

He had only been twelve when he had been ordained as a Divine Paladin, and his childish insistence of playing the hero carried onto his adulthood. He still tried to speak in a deep, loud voice, and he shaved very rarely because it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to grow his beard.

Lastly, he grabbed his sword and the scabbard. He didn’t know when it started, but the raconteurs had taken to calling his sword “Durendal.” It was said to be given to him by a high-ranking duke or the king or angels or even by the Lord. The reasons varied depending on the tale. It could be a gift for his kind nature or excellence in battle, but usually it was a cursed sword that gave him great power in exchange for a heavy toll. This variant was favored because it highlighted his self-sacrifice and his love of the people.

The truth, of course, was always much, much simpler. Olivier, his well-connected merchant friend who had also provided him with his armor and shoes, had ordered it for him. The only criteria Roel had given was simply “make it impressive.”

Olivier had snorted at this. “I fear for all the damsels who won’t realize you’re a grifter in shining armor.” But he had complied.

The blade was made of low-grade steel, but it was plated in nickel to give it a shine and prevent corrosion. The runic designs on the hilt were copied from some ancient language that Olivier had found on a glyph.

“Any swordsman worth his salt will know it’s a shoddy fake. It’ll fool children at best,” Olivier had warned him, “which is perfect considering its wielder has the aesthetic sensibilities of a toddler.”

Frankly, the Lord’s Favor usually made swords and other short-ranged weapons obsolete. But Durendal was a source of comfort. Gripping the hilt made him feel a temporary sense of security, like he was a child clinging onto a weathered boulder in a rapidly flowing river.

He gripped the hilt and made his way to the throne room.