The hall was quiet.
Banners of deep crimson and gold hung motionless in the still air, their edges frayed by decades of ceremonies just like this one. Rows of knights stood in solemn formation, steel polished to a mirror sheen, helms tucked beneath their arms. Their gaze was fixed forward,never upon him. Tradition demanded it. This moment belonged to the one who knelt.
And so Kael knelt.
The flagstones were cold beneath his knees, but he did not waver. His posture was straight, shoulders set, eyes lifted; not to the vaulted ceiling, but to the man who stood before him.
The High Justiciar of the Order.
Clad not in armor, but in white and scarlet, trimmed in gold thread.
The symbol of the Church of the Living Throne gleamed at his breast.
A sword was placed before Kael.
Not drawn resting in its sheath.
A weapon restrained.
"You come before the Order," the Justiciar said, voice calm, measured. "By your own will, not by blood nor decree."
There was a small shift among the gathered.
Kael had been born to a different path, the blood of the royal line ran quietly in his veins. He could have been heir to command, influence, perhaps even a crown. Yet he had refused the court. Refused the palace. Refused the inheritance that others killed to obtain.
He had chosen this instead.
Service.
Duty.
Justice.
The Justiciar lifted the sword.
"Speak your oath."
Kael did not need to be prompted twice.
His voice rang clear in the stillness:
"Be without fear in the face of your enemies."
"Be brave and upright, that God may love thee."
"Speak the truth always, even if it leads to your death."
"Safeguard the helpless, and do no wrong."
His hands did not shake.
His heart burned bright.
"That is your oath," the Justiciar said softly.
"And so long as breath remains within you, you are bound to it."
The sword touched Kael's shoulder, then the other.
Steel kissed bone.
Not to wound—but to mark.
"Rise," the Justiciar said, "Knight of the Sacred Accord."
Kael rose.
The hall breathed.
Light caught the polished steel of the knights around him.
Sun scattered across stone.
He believed, wholly, unshakenly:
Justice is real.
And he would live it.
He did not yet know:
Justice is a blade with two edges. Both can cut crown and cross alike , and so he unseated himself, laying down throne for sword; time will tell who will bleed for the justice he did not yet understand