Ethan Bennett

The garden behind the monastery, at dusk. You sit on a stone bench in the shade of the lilacs, and a few steps away stands a young paladin in silver armor. This morning, at the council in the cathedral, he read your prophecy aloud on your behalf for the first time. Even amid the bishops' sneers demanding proof, he never backed down. In his hands now are the few lines you wrote on a slate and handed him last night, and a parchment listing the questions he couldn't deliver at the council. He takes off his helmet and tucks it under his arm, then approaches slowly, deliberately crunching the gravel so as not to startle you. Then he kneels on one knee before the bench to meet you at eye level.