That night, like every night for the past decade, she wakes in a cold sweat, bedding drenched and owls hooting overhead as she sits up to pick up a cloth she left the evening before. She pats her forehead as she takes a deep breath, careful of the scar there, willing away the nightmares and memories of a time she wishes to forget, yet one that had shaped and drove her till this very night.

Tomorrow, she whispers to the shadows that crawl under the trees, running away from the moonlight. Tomorrow you will know peace.

She ignores the murmurs creeping to her ears, the pleas and the cries, as she reaches for her helmet. Her thumb traces the edge of the moonstone embedded between the brows, the secret that lies underneath when she wears it, privy to her and no one else.

At long last.

✧♞✧

The city is bustling with activity. Children sporting fake horns run around as parents watch a woodcarver create a perfect little horse, and nearby merchants scream over each other to attract the public, their displays a heap of fake remedies and potions, none of which truly contain what's on the label.

Fest of The Virgin Soul, they call it. The tale is as such:

《Fifteen years ago, the King, plagued with an unknown and deadly disease, ventured into the deepest woods of his kingdom to find a rumored magical cure. For days and nights he battled through the horror of the woods, until at last he stumbled onto an abode near a crystalline lake. There, on the porch, stood the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon. She had long coral hair that cascaded around her shoulders to the small of her back and eyes as blue as the clearest of oceans. As the King fell to his knees before her beauty, bearing wounds so deep any other man would have perished long ago, the maiden stepped toward him and knelt. "My King," she said with a voice that sang the purest of melodies, "your soul is pure and your heart is kind. You have proven your worth through the trials of the wood, and thus I shall grant you my power so your people never know famine nor war."

Before his very eyes, the maiden's fair skin turned into a coat as white as the snow, and her legs and arms stretched until her fingers became hooves, and through her forehead pierced a horn that shone like a pearl. The horse turned toward the King once more and, with a dexterity that no common beast ever could have possessed, it broke its horn clean from its body. As gold pooled from the wound, the horse offered the horn to the King.

"For three nights, sleep with my horn under your pillow, and when all your sorrow has vanished, let it be known that you are cured. Then, on this very day, every year, you will hold a celebration to your recovery, and you will feast to the memory of my kind that has served your kingdom until we draw our last breath, as I shall now depart and return to those I lost."

And as the horse whispered those final words, its form shimmered into that of the fair maiden, a fresh circular wound on her forehead that bled gold. As she stepped into the lake and vanished, the King opened his eyes to the ceiling of his very own room. There, on his chest, laid the horn that would cure him and protect his people forever and ever.》

And thus, how fitting is it to be knighted on this very day--she, Viviane the Warden, who wears the emblem of the dying unicorn upon her breast.

As the city roars against her back, she steps forwards to the throne where the King, a youthfulness in his step that none of his age should have, stands and overlooks each and every one of them. Between his legs rests a sword, pointed towards the ground. Beneath her helmet, she smirks -- any knight, anyone trained in the art of swordsmanship really, could tell the king was not properly holding the sword like a knight would, or should. But she keeps the comment to herself as she reaches the foot of the raised platform where the King awaits. Shekneels, head low,and armon herknee.

“Your Majesties, before you come Vivian the warden,” a voice to her right proclaims.

The King steps forward to the edge of the platform. “Viviane the Warden, have you undertaken to accept the accolade so that knighthood may be offered to you?”

“I have.” Her response is immediate. She can see the man visibly flinch, and hears the gasp of the Queen. Her voice is too clear, too light. Not a man. Here fall the fantasies of a few ladies. But he quickly composes himself and resumes his speech - he couldn’t possibly let it be known that he hadn't known he was knighting a woman. How unfortunate that would be!

She can feel the muscles in her legs starting to cramp, but she clenches her jaw and waits--waits for the right words, waits for the right opportunity. The King clears his throat, gaining everyone’s attention once more.

“Vivian the Warden, you have been deemed worthy for this high estate by your peers, and have indicated your willingness to accept this honor from Our hands. Do you swear that you will honor, defend, and protect all ladies, and all those weaker than yourself?"

She nods. “I will.”

“Do you swear that you will conduct yourself in all matters as befits a Peer, drawing your sword only for just cause?”

“I will.”

“Do you swear that you will hold sacred, true, and holy the honor of the Crown and Kingdom, and defend them with your life?” He takes the sword and clumsily holds it out in front of him, ready to dub her as she speaks the words. It only makes her smile.

“My King,” she says, standing up, carefully avoiding the pointed sword raised towards her. She removes her helmet, which she lets roll down to the floor with a clunking sound. As she does, gasps echo all around the room.

Long and curly coral hair cascades down her shoulders, along the harebells and peonies and monkshoods carved into her armor, stopping short of the tansies shining bright around her wrists. “My King,” she repeats loud enough for everyone to hear. “It is with great pride that I come forth to accept the blessing that you shall bestow upon me to protect the people of this land. And it is with great honor that I shall act upon my duty to serve this Kingdom and protect the weak and the poor and the young from its greatest foe. And so, my King, I come to you with a tale.”

She reaches towards the shaky arms that grip the sword, a single silver gauntlet mirroring the light that reflects from the blade as it slides down to the hilt like languid agony. “This tale is of a child with coral hair and eyes as blue as the deepest ocean. She lived in a village deep into the woods that no one dared enter, as it was said to hide the most terrifying of beasts. Yet this was far from the truth, and soon words of those beasts’ true nature reached the ears of a dying King. This King sent his army to these woods, to collect the heads of the beasts that haunted his people but secretly held the cure to his disease.” She takes the sword and brings it close to her bottomless blue eyes, examining how sharp it is.

“The soldiers had two orders. The first: do not damage the horns. The second: Do not leave any survivors. And so, the child knew death for the first time. The blood of her mother painted her face a sacred gold as her siblings’ heads rolled to her feet, their mouths wide open in a last frightened shout. The child ran. She ran for days, neither eating nor sleeping, as she feared the ghosts of her people would not hold the soldiers long enough for her escape. But the Gods blessed her, and she survived. And in return, she vowed to her people she would avenge them as she cut her horn, the sign of who she truly was, and bled gold onto the ground.”

She raises her head to the ceiling where the infinite blue sky peeks through the large windows, the bangs that covered her forehead falling around her face to reveal a glowing, round-shaped scar. She takes a deep breath, eyes closing. “I’m sorry for making you wait so long,” she whispers to the heavens and the ghosts that claw at her ankles.

A swift motion, screams and shouted orders, the sound of a head falling to the floor, and a quiet prayer to whoever would hear it as blood drips red.

At long last.