The Hour Before the Storm

One hour slid by like a held breath—quiet, tight, and heavy with unspoken anticipation.

The preparations for the Seven Knight Trial moved fast. Too fast. The arena below had been empty a short while ago, nothing but dust and stone arcs. Now it buzzed with motion—servants rushing across the sands to plant banners, mages carving glowing wards into the ground, engineers locking the circular barrier ring into place. The quiet hum of enchantments pulsed through the air like a heartbeat.

From the balcony—no, the command room overlooking the arena—Ben watched everything unfold with an expression that didn't quite match the weight of what he'd set into motion. He sat back in a heavy chair carved with the Lionheart sigil, elbows resting on the armrests, fingers interlaced as he looked down. From here, he had a flawless view of the entire arena—a perfect vantage point for a man who had carried both a kingdom and a family on his shoulders for decades.

Behind him stood Commander Walton.

Grey hair. Black eyes. A face shaped by wars and losses. A suit of metal plates that caught the morning light in dull glints. The lion insignia on his breastplate sat proudly, as if carved directly into his sternum instead of hammered into armor.

He stood with the stiffness of someone who had guarded kings since before Victor was born.

Ben broke the heavy silence first.

"Walton," he said, his voice low but steady. "The preparations?"

Walton stepped forward. "Almost complete, my lord. The arena wards are stable. The trial knights have been briefed and are waiting in the holding chambers. The medics and attendants are stationed under the western gallery."

Ben didn't look away from the arena. "And the barrier?"

"Reinforced three times. Even if Victor goes beyond expectations… we will contain the fallout."

Ben snorted softly. "Contain him? Hm. You're optimistic."

Walton didn't smile, but there was a small exhale, the kind an old soldier lets out when remembering a boy who shouldn't have grown into such a force.

"My lord," Walton murmured, "we've done everything that can be done. The rest is in his hands."

Ben nodded, but there was a shadow behind his eyes. A thin crack of worry. Or guilt. Hard to tell with him.

Walton noticed anyway.

"You knew this day would come," Walton said quietly.

Ben finally turned his head. "Knowing doesn't make it easy."

Before Walton could respond, the heavy door to the command room swung open.

Both men turned.

Anna stepped in.

She didn't walk—she glided, but with a heaviness that made her steps feel like they were sinking into the floor. Her face was pale, tense, subdued in a way that sucked the warmth from the room. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Walton, then to the arena, then finally to Ben.

And her eyes were dark with dread.

Walton straightened immediately. He bowed his head with crisp formality.

"Your Majesty."

Anna acknowledged him with the smallest nod, barely more than a dip of her chin. Her lips pressed into a thin line—she wasn't here for pleasantries.

Walton hesitated a heartbeat, glancing toward Ben.

Ben gave no signal to leave. So Walton stayed, stiff and silent, trying not to intrude but unable to pretend he didn't feel the tension roll off Anna like heat.

Ben rose slowly from his chair.

"My love," he murmured, softening his tone. "Come. Sit."

Anna didn't move.

Her voice came out strained. "Ben… you're truly going forward with this?"

Ben held her gaze, the calmness in his eyes almost cruel compared to the turmoil in hers.

"There was no stopping him," he said quietly.

Anna's nostrils flared. "You barely tried."

Walton glanced aside, suddenly very interested in the far wall.

Ben stepped toward Anna, closing the distance until he was right in front of her. He lifted a hand, brushing his thumb gently across her cheek, trying to coax her into breathing normally.

"He would've broken out on his own," Ben said. "You know that."

Anna's jaw tightened. "He's our son. Not a weapon. Not a spectacle for nobles who want blood and glory."

"He's not doing this for them," Ben answered. "He's doing it for himself."

Anna squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, breath trembling. "That's exactly what scares me."

Ben's hand fell from her cheek to her shoulder, fingers curling around it in reassurance.

"Anna," he murmured, "I saw the fire in him. The same fire he had as a child when he wanted to prove he belonged here. You remember that day?"

Anna swallowed, voice weak. "Too well."

"Then you know," Ben continued, "if I forced him to step aside today, I'd only stunt him. Or worse… break the trust he's finally willing to put in us."

That sentence landed hard.

Anna looked away, as if trying to stop herself from trembling. "You're always so calm about this," she whispered. "But I'm not. I can't be."

Ben exhaled, soft and slow. A sigh weighed down with love and inevitability. He leaned in and kissed her forehead—the same tender gesture he had given her earlier, but this time with a deeper ache behind it.

"I'm terrified too," he said. "I just hide it better."

Anna finally blinked, eyes sharp and moist. "Damn you."

Ben smiled faintly. "I'll take that."

Walton cleared his throat gently, trying not to intrude but not wanting to stay silent either.

"My Queen," he said, voice steady, "you raised a prince who has already surpassed every knight in this kingdom. Today isn't a punishment for him. It's a stage."

Anna turned her head, fixing Walton with a cold stare. "And if something goes wrong?"

Walton didn't flinch. "Then I will be the first to step in. I stake my life on it."

Anna looked back at Ben. "You trust him with this?"

Ben didn't hesitate. "With both our lives."

A beat passed.

A long one.

Anna finally let out a shuddering exhale, shoulders dropping just a fraction. She still didn't sit, but some of the fight drained from her posture, replaced by something heavier—acceptance, or at least the beginnings of it.

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