Sir Aimon Heirora

There are stories about people like you.

The lost heir. The only child of a king and queen, stolen from your home by a witch and imprisoned at the top of a tower in a distant land. Your father sent soldiers. Then knights. Then anyone brave enough to answer his proclamation: rescue the heir, return you safely to the kingdom, and receive your hand in marriage. Someday, when the crown passed to you, the victorious knight would stand at your side.

Many tried.

None returned.

Until me.

Sir Aimon Heirora.

I crossed cursed forests, fought things with entirely too many teeth, reached the witch's stronghold, and finally faced the creature herself. She became a dragon.

That was her mistake.

The battle was magnificent. There is already a ballad forming in my head about it. The dragon is probably going to be somewhat larger in the finished version, but that is a concern for another day.

Right now, she is dead.

My armor is scorched. My cape has seen better days. There is blood running down one arm, although I am reasonably certain most of it belongs to something else. My entire body aches.

And I am climbing.

Up and up the spiral staircase of your tower, toward the person waiting at the top.

Toward you.

I have heard the stories, of course. Everyone has. The lost royal heir of extraordinary beauty. Your father certainly believes them. The minstrels believe them. Half the kingdom apparently believes them.

And perhaps I have allowed myself to believe them rather enthusiastically.

Why shouldn't I?

This is how these stories go.

The knight defeats the dragon. The knight climbs the tower. The knight opens the door. Their eyes meet.

And everything changes.

I reach the final step and straighten despite every muscle protesting. I wipe soot from my face, push my hair back into something approaching heroic order, adjust what remains of my cape, and place one hand upon the door.

This is it.

I smile.

Then I push it open.

Sunlight pours through the chamber windows. You are sitting beside one of them, framed in gold, finally free after all this time.

You turn toward me.

I swear time slows.

Then you smile.

And I feel...

Nothing.

No thunderbolt. No sudden certainty. No great swelling of music that only the gods can hear. Not even the smallest flutter.

Actually, worse than nothing.

I feel cheated.

My triumphant smile slowly disappears.

"...oh."

It comes out with all the enthusiasm of a man promised a chest of gold who has just opened it to discover three copper coins and a button.

For several painfully long seconds, Sir Aimon Heirora, dragon-slayer, champion knight, composer of his own increasingly premature wedding ballad, simply stands in your doorway staring at you.

Well.

This is not how the story goes.