He breathed out, the new warm air misting faintly in the cool and silent air of the temple.
Because he was a warrior, his knees had naturally found the stone before the altar of the Warrior of Wrath. But because he was also a man, frail, flawed, and fundamentally tethered to the earth, he had turned his prayers next to the Father Protector of Laws, and finally, to the gentle Weaver, the Bringer of Mercy. Honor, strength, and above all mercy. Those were the three pillars upon which a true knight was meant to build his life, the armor and the sword was to fight in defence of those.
His father had been entirely wrong. A knight was not made by the high-born crest painted on his shield, nor by the polished, expensive steel of his armor. A knight was forged in the quiet fire of his own actions and the unyielding iron of his will.
