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.

Sir Jacob thought he was going to die, and he accepted that fact with grace. He was a knight of the Bronze Ring, sworn to the order of the most feared warriors in the land, and his oaths were clear and solid as diamond. First, to defend his own honor. Second, to stand up against only the greatest threats. Third, to die in the face of battle rather than surrender and allow himself to be taken prisoner. By leaping off this cliff, he wasn't running away from a fight--he was simply fulfilling his third oath.

Never mind that the enemy he faced this time was different. Not the army of a warlord, or a foreign kingdom, but his own kingdom. The king was blatantly corrupt, sending soldiers out to bully his people into submission. According to Sir Jacob's second oath, he and his retinue had to oppose the greatest threats, and there was no greater threat to this kingdom than the one within. But not all of the Bronze Ring agreed with that assessment, hence this battle.

The gods must have had a twisted sense of humor. Out of all the knights the king sent out to track down Sir Jacob, the one that found him and ran him down was his own brother. As soon as he saw the king's black and gold crest on Sir Jameson's armor, he knew this fight would end badly.

He knew he and his men couldn't beat Jameson's better-equipped troops in battle. They were already exhausted from multiple days of riding, and the king's soldiers had the advantage of better rations. He couldn't surrender, as much as he might want to, so the only way to end a fight would be allowing Jameson to kill him. But this way... choosing the water... his oaths were still kept. He had died in the face of battle, and his men were no longer forced to fight with him to the bitter end. They could surrender to the king's mercy, living to fight another day. He knew Jameson, at least, would be merciful.

He only hoped the men would understand that.

Sir Jacob hit the water with a crash, not a splash. His leg smashed against a rock, metal crumpling into a messy, gory mass. His helmet protected his head, so he remained conscious as the rest of his broken body sunk beneath the waves. There was no escaping now. This heavy armor would become his coffin, dragging him to the bottom of the sea.

He remained a knight, brave and bold. He held firm as the air left his lungs, bubbling up to the surface--so close, but unreachable. Only when the darkness started creeping into the edges of his vision, lungs burning and convulsing, did he panic. He reached down and fiddled with the straps of his armor, trying to take it off, but nothing worked. The straps were too tight, his fingers not dexterous enough in this addled state.

Just as his sight went dark and the water entered his lungs, he heard a sound. A voice, coming from close and far at the same time.

Champion of the Bronze Ring, faithful to the inevitable end. If I told you your quest was not over, would you stand back up and fight against impossible odds?

Sir Jacob was not in a mental state to wonder why he wasn't dead. Really, he wasn't in much of a mental state at all, but he managed to think, Who are you?

From nowhere and everywhere, the sound of clanging trumpets and stampeding horses drowned out the quiet churning of the sea. Dhegmir, Keeper of Honor. The god you swore your oaths to. And I have a mission for you.