Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Original Work Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Knight/Maid Additional Tags: Knight, Enemies to Lovers, Medieval, dramione - Freeform, knightcore, Love, Forbidden Love, Angst, Battle, armour, Original Fiction, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Love Triangles, Body Worship, Prophecy, Sexual Tension, Tension, kingdom - Freeform Summary:
Sir Eion, a Knight of the Bound River sworn never to remove his helmet, seeks to become the high lady’s sworn protector. But her maid—defiant, impulsive, and infuriating at every turn—quickly becomes his greatest obstacle. Their hostility burns bright… and so does the unwanted attraction growing beneath it. None of them realises the prince, the lady, the maid, and the faceless knight are bound by a dark prophecy. As tensions sharpen and fate closes in, Sir Eion must confront a truth that could save the realm—or break all of them apart.
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
The morning began in a blur. Ember rose late and rushed from her chambers, neglecting to tie her hair. Her brunette curls trailed wildly behind her as she hurried up the stone steps towards Eleanor’s room.
“Apologies for my lateness, Eleanor,” she called breathlessly.
As she entered the room, she sighed in relief. Her lady was already awake, carefully selecting a fine dress from her collection. Ember made haste, pouring a hot bath from the water left only moments ago by the waterman. The copper tub steamed with the scent of lavender as she guided Eleanor gently into the warmth.
“You seem flustered this morning, Ember. Is all well?” Eleanor asked, leaning back as the heat relaxed her muscles.
Ember gave an apologetic smile. “I did not rest well last night.”
“Would you like to talk about it?” Eleanor’s voice was soft, knowing. She had always been able to read Ember’s emotions.
Ember paused, searching for words to untangle the knot in her mind. “The faceless knight worries me. I overheard in the kitchens this morning that he was wandering the castle last night.” A lie—but a convenient one.
Eleanor took a bar of soap from the small table beside the tub. “Is that so strange? Our knights patrol the grounds often.”
“He is not one of our knights, Eleanor. It troubles me.”
“You know that you are safe here,” Eleanor said gently. “If this knight is untrained or untrustworthy, he will not remain long. The tournament will see to that. Besides, today is meant to be fun. I see now that the day will be long, and we may not get to ride as planned, but we will find our own entertainment. Perhaps a bet or two?”
Ember laughed lightly, hoping it sounded genuine. “You’re right. The day is what we make it.” Her words carried confidence, but her hands were restless and her thoughts unsettled. Every time she blinked, she saw the narrow slit of a helmet, striking green eyes in shadow, and heard that low, lingering laugh. She pushed the memory down, praying it would stay buried for the rest of the day.
Eleanor lathered the soap, her expression serene. “Make sure you eat something after this. You cannot last all day on an empty stomach.”
“I will,” Ember promised.
But her mind betrayed her, flashing back to the weight of a gauntleted hand raised in silent command, the sharpness of his voice, and the strange, unwelcome pull she had felt the moment their eyes met.
No. She would not think about him. He was irrelevant. He would be a distant memory soon enough.
Eleanor continued speaking about the day’s schedule, but Ember only half-heard her. Her thoughts slipped and tangled, refusing to settle.
Whatever this morning held, Ember felt certain it would not be simple.
*
The challenge arena was ready. The early morning sun broke through the storm clouds from the night before, drying the last of the rain droplets still clinging to the trees. Groundsmen hurried about, setting the final pieces in place for the joust. Spectators slowly made their way to their seats, the air buzzing with excitement and the promise of chaos.
Ember waited in the courtyard before the arena. The royal party would arrive last, and she stood ready to assist Eleanor with the long train of her velvet red dress—a symbol and reminder of the red ribbons that would be handed out should a knight fail this round of the trials.
“We will go soon,” Eleanor announced, stepping out from the shelter and approaching Ember. “My uncle is on his way. Oh, isn’t this exciting? I cannot recall the last time we had a full joust in session.”
“Do you not think the game is a little… brutish?” Ember asked, remembering too clearly the last joust she had witnessed—dislocated shoulders, blood sprayed across gravel beneath galloping hooves, and once, the horrifying sight of a wooden lance piercing an unshielded neck.
“Yes, but this is different,” Eleanor said. “Do you not remember what I told you this morning?”
Ember scolded herself for her distraction. “I am sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”
“The knights will not fatally harm one another,” Eleanor clarified. “These trials test strength, discipline, and skill. We do not wish our allies to injure each other. It takes great ability to spare a man’s life rather than to take it without cause.”
Ember couldn’t help but agree. The reminder softened the tightness in her chest—though she wouldn’t have minded a small injury finding its way to Sir Eion, the bold knight of arrogance.
The king soon appeared alongside his trusted adviser, Lord Welbeck, and of course Prince Edward. Ember lowered her gaze at once, bowing gently as she focused on the polished leather of the three men’s boots.
“Let us proceed, my dear,” the king said with warm authority, offering his hand to Eleanor, who took it gladly. Ember’s gaze flicked upwards—a mistake that cost her dignity. She met the eyes of the prince, and a blush crept swiftly across her cheeks. She dropped her gaze at once, gathered the train of her lady’s dress, and followed behind. The Lord and the Prince fell into step close behind her.
The walk to the raised podium was thankfully short; Ember could hardly bear the thought of the prince walking so nearby. Was he watching her? Remembering the events of last night? Or was that merely a whisper in the wind—no more significant than the countless other encounters he must have had with women before her?
The crowd rose in respect at the sight of the king. His robes alone commanded admiration, the deep royal velvet catching the emerging sunlight, and beside him stood his beautiful niece, holding onto his arm with practiced grace.
Ember stepped back as Eleanor took her seat with the rest of the royal party. Only the king remained standing.
“My lords, ladies, and residents of the land,” he began, his voice ringing clearly over the crowd, “it is a great joy to see you all here to witness the first of the three trials presented to our promising knights. The sun now shines its light upon the expectations of the day, just as the moon did last night.”
He lifted his head slightly, acknowledging the sky.
“All of you in attendance last night will know that we have sixteen knights remaining. They are at this moment readying their horses for today’s spectacle. Please—enjoy the day’s gift.”
A cheer rose from the crowd, thunderous and warm. Looking pleased, the king settled into his chair, the largest of them all, sitting tall and proud.
Ember leant low and whispered to her lady, “I will be at the back should you need anything.” She earned a subtle nod from Eleanor and slipped away quickly, not daring to linger too long.
She had barely taken three steps when the prince’s hand suddenly closed around her wrist, stopping her mid-stride. His face remained forward, eyes cast over the arena as though nothing at all had happened.
“Did your readings prove fruitful last night?” he asked in a playful whisper.
Ember turned her head just enough to glimpse the smirk tugging at his mouth. “I do not know what you mean, Your Grace.”
His smirk deepened at her answer. His thumb swept lightly over the vein at her wrist, an infuriatingly gentle touch—before he let her go, releasing her from the strangely welcome captivity. She walked away at once, her steps far more confident than before.
It wasn’t long before she took her place beside the king’s servants and the other household staff. Moments later the king’s page stepped forward, announcing the order of the ceremonial joust.
First to take the field were Sir Garrick of Ironholt and Sir Aldwin of Redgate. Both were dressed in their finest armour, polished to a mirror’s shine, their house colours striking beautifully against the dark sand beneath them. Their horses looked just as proud—though Ember always felt a flicker of pity for the beasts, used as tools to carry out the will of their masters.
The herald sounded his trumpet, sharp and clear. Both knights lowered their visors and cast a glance toward Lady Eleanor, seeking her favour. She smiled sweetly, offering none.
Satisfied, the knights focused on one another, levelling their lances in preparation for the charge.
A second blast of the trumpet rang out.
The horses surged forward, hooves thundering across the sand at full speed, carrying their riders with powerful, disciplined strides. The knights aimed carefully for the opposing shield, mindful not to cause true harm—and just as suddenly as the charge began, both lances struck home. The impact was controlled, neither man wavering in his seat.
The charges would continue until one of them was unhorsed and the other claimed victory for this round.
In this trial, unseating one’s opponent was the primary goal; traditional scoring would only delay the inevitable fate of those destined to receive the dreaded red ribbon.
The crowd murmured in approval as the first round continued, the strikes clean, measured, and merciful—exactly as Eleanor had promised. Ember folded her hands before her, the familiar ache of nerves settling beneath her ribs. She had always found jousts difficult to watch; each thundering collision felt like it shook her bones as well as the ground.
The page stepped forward again, his voice ringing out over the arena.
“Next, Sir Rowan of Coalmarch and Sir Pelham of the Goldarch!”
A louder cheer rose this time—both knights had arrived with sizeable entourages, and their banners fluttered proudly in the breeze. Sir Rowan’s armour bore the pale grey of his hold, while Sir Pelham’s was trimmed in gold, sunlight glinting along the fine edge of his pauldrons.
The two knights rode out with impressive discipline, their horses snorting steady plumes of breath as they took their places. The herald raised his trumpet.
Ember tried to settle her thoughts, but unease crawled up her spine. The next pair, she knew, would bring the knight she’d hoped not to see. She told herself it was not fear—just irritation, mingled with curiosity she sorely wished she did not have.
The trumpet sounded.
Sir Rowan and Sir Pelham charged, their lances lowered with perfect precision. The strike was cleaner than the previous pair’s—Pelham’s shield cracked visibly on impact, but he remained mounted, teeth bared behind the bars of his helm. They wheeled their horses for a second charge, the crowd roaring with encouragement.
The trumpet blared once more. Sir Pelham hit the ground this time, landing in the sand with a heavy thud that rolled through the stands. The crowd erupted, delighted. The Coalmarch knight circled his horse proudly before dismounting to check his opponent.
The Page returned to the front of the podium, unfurling the next parchment.
“The third match of the day,” the herald announced, and Ember’s pulse thudded painfully in her ears, “will be between Sir Eion of the Bound River and Sir Markus of Clareford!”
Ember exhaled slowly at the sight of him. His armour was almost the same, but somehow more silver than before, polished within an inch of its life. His helmet, however, had changed—it was now adorned with threatening spikes around the mouthpiece. The narrow visor lent an aggressive expression to the iron, harsh and intimidating. His muscular black stallion mirrored the look, its own face armour bristling with matching spikes. The sight was breathtaking.
The royal box whispered in anticipation. The appearance of Sir Eion sent a ripple through the arena. He must have known, Ember thought. The change in his armour was deliberate, a statement, yet despite this, he betrayed no emotion on the ground. He did not even raise his head toward Lady Eleanor. He was entirely focused on his opponent. Nothing, not even the world ending would distract the Knight of the Bound River.
The trumpets blared once again, sharp and commanding, the knights lowered their lances with purpose.
Ember wondered in that moment what Sir Markus must be feeling, looking across towards the dangerous sight staring back.
The horses pawed at the sand, muscles coiled, nostrils flaring, eyes bright with anticipation.
Sand cracked and sprayed as the horses surged forward, hooves drumming against the arena floor. The knights’ lances levelled with precision, only seconds to aim accurately. The shields tipped forward, and the sound of iron clashing against iron rang sharp, metallic, and resonant. Ember flinched, gripping the folds of her skirts.
Sir Markus struck first, the point of his lance colliding against Eion’s shield. Sparks flew where steel met steel, but Eion barely flinched, unbothered by the impact. His stallion’s hooves struck the ground like a battle cry, powerful and unrelenting.
The second pass came almost immediately. This time, the clash rocked Sir Markus in his saddle, and he clung to his balance with all the strength he had. Sir Eion’s lance splintered, fragments of wood spraying like rain, but on the turn of his horse he acquired a new lance and charged once more.
The skill and discipline he displayed were unquestionable. Every movement, every strike, every controlled pivot of horse and rider carried the tale of years of training. Ember’s breath caught as Eion guided his black stallion back with ease, the horse moving as if it were an extension of the knight himself.
The rhythm of impact and retreat, clash and strike, filled the arena. Finally, with a last, controlled lunge, Eion’s lance struck true. The sound of the fallen knight cracking through the arena made Ember flinch again as Sir Markus flew off his horse, bouncing onto the sand below.
Eion remained, steady and proud, looking down at his opponent, unhorsed but unhurt. Ember exhaled, his skill was unlike anything she had ever seen. She, forgetting her place, took a step forward as the crowd cheered in appreciation.
But Eion did not stay to relish his victory. As soon as the fallen knight rose to his feet, Sir Eion of the Bound River was gone.
Ember’s eyes followed the empty space where he had stood, the skilful knight who had so easily unhorsed Sir Markus, only to vanish as if he had never been there.
She gritted her teeth, pressing her hands into the folds of her skirts.
Arrogant, infuriating, insufferable, she thought, each word simmering like fire in her chest.
He had no right to dominate the arena that way, to command attention with every calculated move, to leave a trail of admiration and envy behind him.
She hated the way he had looked so untouchable, so deliberate, so… precise. And the fact that he didn’t even glance at Lady Eleanor, didn’t acknowledge anyone, only fuelled her irritation. Who did he think he was?
Every part of her wanted to scold him, to demand he show some humility, some respect in the very least. She had seen men in armour before, but none had irritated her like him, none had managed to pull that level of sheer audacity. Ember’s cheeks flush despite her willing them not to.
She tugged at her skirts and turned her gaze away, forcing herself to watch the next knights enter the arena.
She would not give him another thought, she promised herself. He was nothing more than a blustering, overconfident knight who would soon leave, and she would be rid of him.
