Evening
Springton.
*************
The evening shadows cast long fingers of darkness across the stone corridors of the knight's quarters. The air was cool and heavy with the scent of burning torches, which flickered and danced in their sconces.
Conrad, a seasoned knight with stern features and a perpetual look of wonderment etched into his face, marched purposefully down the hall, his boots echoing ominously against the hard floor.
In this moment his mind was set on a singular task—confronting the knight he suspected of being a spy for the enemy kingdom of Firseria.
He reached a wooden door, slightly ajar, and pushed it open. The room beyond was dimly lit by a single, guttering candle on a desk cluttered with parchments and quills. Seated at this desk, his posture, one of dejection and anxiety, was a young knight with black hair that fell messily around his face. Holden.
