text: [Themes: fantasy, action, fantasy, anti-hero]
  
  You scoff at the idea of leaving your home. The king says he'll send men your way if you don't respond? Oh, please. You can fend off any pansies he sends your way. Though you're getting up there in years, you can still fight with the strength of a hundred soldiers.
  
  With that, you resolve to continue on as you've been doing. For the next few days, you don't do much; you get your bread and wine from Bertrand, drink until you black out, then do it again. It continues this way until, finally, a week has passed since the letter.
  
  You've almost forgotten about it when Bertrand enters your room at around midday. He's already brought you your bread and wine, so you're not sure why he'd come here. His expression is a mask of worry and fear. "Explain yourself," you say, and Bertrand nods with a gulp.
  
  "The king has sent his men here, sir. They're here to take you away to Castle Oren." Bertrand is looking very afraid.
  
  "Send them away."
  
  "What?"
  
  "I said send them away. I don't wish to entertain them."
  
  "But sir..."
  
  > Fine. If Bertrand is so hesitant, you'll do it yourself.
  "Fine," you grunt. "I'll do it myself." Of course Bertrand can't get them out of here. They're the king's men with an order to get you, not some con man looking to sell you cheap wares at an inflated price. He's never had to do this to someone who has good reason to come in, and it scares him. You understand, somewhat.
  
  For the first time in ages, you leave the master bedroom and walk the halls of your manor, Bertrand following after you. It's been well kept by your servants, for the odd occasion that someone comes to visit. The fine paintings adorning the walls are flawless and their frames clean of dust, the walls are painted a regal blue, and lanterns hung on the ceiling keep the place well lit.
  
  You walk out to the courtyard to greet the king's men. A lone tree sits in the center of the courtyard on a circular patch of grass, surrounded by a cobblestone path. A series of bushes encompass the manor itself, giving the entire courtyard a reserved, tidy appearance. The knights are sitting in wait and look up when you approach. One stands and walks over to you.
  
  He removes his helmet, revealing a youthful yet stern face. His sandy blond hair is cut short, and his green eyes burn a hole into your own grey ones. He gives you a salute, then speaks, "Good day, Sir Kit. I am Miller, of the Gold Hawk Knights. We've come here to take you with us to Castle Oren."
  
  > shake your head. "Afraid I won't oblige your request. Now leave."
  Miller scowls at your calm request for him to leave. "I'm afraid I can't, Sir Kit. Please, come with us. I won't ask again." You can feel your anger flaring up, and for a moment you wish you had brought your sword to cut this bastard down.
  
  "You listen to me, Miller," you growl, hissing his name out like it's an insult. "I want to live in peace. You take your Gold Hawk Knights and get out of here. Leave me be."
  
  He shakes his head. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. Knights, apprehend Sir Kit." The two knights flanking Miller approach you, attempting to grab you. On instinct, you fight back, delivering a hook to one's face and causing him to stumble back towards Miller. The other quickly draws his sword and swings, but you duck under it and disarm him. With the longsword in hand, you quickly stab him in the chest.
  
  Blood pours out of his wound as you push him to the ground. You blink, suddenly realizing what you just did. Miller and the other knight look at you and their dying comrade in shock. Miller and his ally draw their own swords, pointing them at you. "You're under arrest, murderer! Surrender or our blades will taste your blood!"
  
  > Didn't mean to do that... You can't believe... You surrender willingly. You deserve whatever fate awaits.
  You're in as much shock as the two knights. Quickly, you drop the sword and raise your hands. Miller approaches you, rage written on his face, and hits you in the face with the pommel of his sword. Instantly, darkness takes you. The last thing you hear before you slip into unconsciousness is Miller telling his comrade, "Tie him up and get him in the wagon. Take Edward's corpse."
  
  When you wake up, you're face down on a cold stone floor. Pushing yourself up, you look around and see Miller not far from you. Seperating the two of you is a row of iron bars. "Miller," you say. "What is the meaning of this?"
  
  He sighs, pulling up a wooden chair and sitting down. "You should be thankful you're not on the chopping block. The king's respect for you is the only reason you're still alive. If you were any other man, your head would roll for killing a knight."
  
  You don't respond. The weight of what you did hits you full force in that moment. Because of it, you're going to rot here.
  
  "There will be no trial. If anything, you being in this cell is to protect you. The Gold Hawk Knights are furious." Miller stands, pushing the chair back. "Farewell, Kit."
  
  Miller heads to the door and shuts it, leaving you to your isolation. It's the last time you ever see him.
  
  For the next few years, your only human contact is when a guard comes in to deliver you some food. At first it's a nice break in the monotony of being alone in your cell, but soon it becomes part of the routine. Even when you try to strike up a conversation, the guard ignores you and just gives you your food. It's a lonely life.
  
  Eventually, the meals decrease in frequency, until one day you realize that it's been a week since you had food. You begin to yell, hoping to grab a guard's attention and get some food, but no one comes. Another week passes and you find yourself barely clinging onto what little life you have. The lack of food has been effecting you greatly, and the only water you can get is from drops of rain that come through your little window.
  
  When three weeks pass, you finally die. A guard comes the next day to remove your corpse. He drops it into a wagon of similar corpses, where you're sent off to be incinerated. A criminal such as yourself doesn't deserve a proper burial anyhow.