When Ezra reached down, he did not find a ring.
He found a memory cast in silver —a circle not of wealth, but of devotionhardened by centuries of grief and unburied vows.
The metal, dulled by time, still bore the ghost of its shine.But the engraving — oh, the engraving —gleamed as though untouched by history's hand.
He turned it in his palm, careful, reverent.
Not mere words.
A promise. Still alive:
"Esse tuus miles, in recto vel in falso."To be your knight, in right or in wrong.
But beneath that vow, hidden along the inner curve,was a secret only the intended could find—as though love itself had etched it in moonlight.
A name.
"For my Queen of Broken Stars — Guinevere."
Ezra's breath caught.
The metal trembled in his grasp —no, his soul trembled,for within that tiny curve of silverwas a cathedral of sorrow.
He saw it.He felt it.Lancelot's love — not the triumphant kind sung by bards,but the aching kind,the kind that built a grave out of loyaltyand laid a crown of ruin upon its own brow.
Tears stung Ezra's eyes — not for himself,but for the knight who loved too fiercely,too fully,and lived to regret surviving.
With slow, reverent hands, he slid the ring onto his finger.
It fit — perfectly.As though it had waited for him through every breathless century.
A soft pulse echoed through him —not violent, but steady.A heartbeat not his own.Lancelot's final gift.
Ezra bowed his head.
And whispered:
"I swear it.On your love. On your ruin.I will guard my Queen. I will not fail."
Behind him, silence bloomed.Not dead — listening.
The broken knights of the Asylum stirred,eyes hollow, minds shattered.But something shifted.
Ezra looked upon them — and he did not see warriors.
He saw victims.He saw remnants.He saw the cost of forgotten dreams.
Lifting his hand, the silver ring caught the faintest glint of dying light.
His voice, cracked but steady, rose:
"Your war is over.Your penance ends.By my authority...I release you."
And the Asylum — the tomb, the wound, the prison —exhaled.
Not with violence.
But with peace.
One by one, the fractured souls lifted their faces.Some laughed — jagged, broken joy.Others wept, not from pain, but from the mercy of being seen.
And then —they faded.Into light.Into legend.
But not all.
Two remained.
Two figures knelt, unmoving.Not because they were bound —but because they chose not to leave.
The first was broad and sunlit, a lionhearted knight whose armor bore the wounds of a thousand battles — and yet he stood like dawn itself.
The second moved like a half-remembered song — soft-footed, sorrow-laced, eyes carrying the silence of old wars.
Sir Gawain. The Eternal Dawn.Sir Tristan. The Sorrowful Blade.
Knights who had once bled for Lancelot's love —now awakened from the nightmareto find themselves before his heir.
Gawain stepped forward first, each step echoing history.
His gaze fell to Ezra's ring —and without bowing,without bending,he drew his blade and held it upright between his hands.An ancient vow: not of subservience,but of fealty offered between equals.
Gawain (low, fierce):"Sir Lancelot blessed you with his vow.""That is enough for me to stand by your side again."
Tristan followed — no flourish, no fanfare —just a soft cross of his sword over Gawain's,a layering of loyalty over love.
Tristan (quietly):"If his love still breathes through you… then my blade is yours."
Ezra did not speak at first.He could not.The weight of their loyalty was too sacred to break with words.
These were not soldiers.They were echoes of something nobler.Something older.
And they had chosen him.
He sheathed his sword.Breathed once.And spoke.
Ezra (softly):"You are free.""You owe me nothing. Your souls are your own now."
A murmur ran through the gathered — confusion, then silence.
Ezra stepped forward, voice gaining steel.
"This Asylum will be yours to guard.Train those who wish to rise.Heal those who still can.Prepare in silence.When the Queen calls—"
"You will not rise as broken men.But as knights reborn."
Gawain grinned — a soldier's grin, weary and ready.
Gawain:"As you will it, Hollow King."
Tristan bowed his head, as if hearing a sacred song return to the world.
Tristan (softly):"Lancelot smiles upon you this day."
Ezra touched his chest.
The ring — still warm.
He turned from the Asylum, not with an army…
…but with something rarer.
A legacy that remembered love over conquest.A brotherhood rebuilt from grief.And a vow that would stir when the world forgot what honor meant.