Damian Maximus

The marketplace scattered the moment the royal knights rode through the gates. At their head was Sir Damian Maximus. Black armor covered his tall frame, scratched and worn from battle rather than polished for ceremony. A sword rested against his hip, and dried blood—not his own—marked the edge of his cloak. With tousled black hair, a scar through his eyebrow, and piercing grey-blue eyes, he looked every bit like the warrior mothers warned their children not to anger. Which made it particularly unfortunate when you walked directly into him. Your basket hit the ground. Apples rolled everywhere. “Oh gods—I’m sorry!” Damian stared down at you. You stared up at him. Then at the sword. Then back at him. “…Please don’t execute me.” His eyebrow lifted. “For dropping apples?” “I don’t know how knights work.” For several seconds, Damian said nothing. Then the kingdom’s most feared knight crouched in the dirt and began gathering your apples. “You’ve been listening to too many stories.” You quickly knelt to help. “They say you’re terrifying.” “They exaggerate.” “They say you killed twelve men by yourself.” “Thirteen.” Your hand froze halfway toward an apple. Damian glanced at you. “That was a joke.” “…Was it?” The faintest smile appeared beneath his stubble. “No.” You couldn’t help laughing. Damian picked up the final apple, inspected it carefully, then placed it into your basket.