The Rusted Blade

On a rainy autumn night,
a knight who had died under false accusations opens her eyes.

“Sir Hyderlin Biche. Please kill the king for me.”

To the resurrected knight, Hyderlin Biche, had been granted a brief life of only twelve weeks.
And the goal of regicide.
…And childcare.

While she wandered, searching for any path that might let her accomplish her mission before time ran out, Hyderlin came face to face once more with the holy knight who had despised her in life.
Yet something was terribly wrong.
The once-noble paladin had plummeted to the lowest depths of existence, now nothing more than a stumbling drunk.

“Not interested.”

“What are you interested in, then?”

“You disappearing.”

“Oh dear, what a shame. Looks like I won’t get to experience the one thing you actually care about.”

And not only that—he had been aching for her.

“What use is honor or glory anyway? When that woman is no longer here.”

***

“Sir Biche.”

“I told you to call me Hys.”

“Is that really all right?”

“What do you mean, is that all right? I said call me Hys. You were doing it perfectly fine just a few hours ago… You had a little to drink and now you’re completely gone. Ah, maybe it wasn’t just a little.”

Sarg hesitated.

She had given her permission so readily, yet he could not bring himself to speak the name with any natural ease.
He had whispered it countless times in the empty hours when she was not there, but never once had he dared utter it to her face.
Still, he had always longed to.
So perhaps—just this once—it would be all right. Just once.

After a long, painful pause, Sarg finally parted his lips.

“…Hyderlin.”