The knight stood at the cliff’s edge with his sword in his hand and a choice to make. Sea-air whipped at his cape, tattered and torn, crest barely visible as it beat against his plate armour. He tasted brine beneath his visor as his habds danced around the hilt of his blade, driving the sword’s point into the sea-softened mud beneath him.

Behind him, hoofbeats and war drums, the rolling sound of an advancing army. Sir Jacob knew his men were spent, his horse crumpled at his feet as dark rivers of crusted blood stuck to his boot. He wanted to turn and face the charging men, emblazoned with enemy crest and colour.

Instead, he took one step forwards towards the rocky cliff’s edge, and went cleanly over.