Last knight

Chapter One: The Storm's Herald

***：************** lounged in his chair, a goblet of sour wine in hand, as the visitor from the capital stood before him. The man’s uniform was immaculate, his decorative armor gleaming with intricate filigree, and the two silver pips on his collar marked him a full rank above Phrixus. Yet, the so-called "Lieutenant Colonel" reeked of courtly pretension, his every gesture dripping with condescension.

Phrixus didn’t rise. He didn’t even look up. “Took you long enough,” he drawled, swirling the dregs of his drink.

The visitor’s jaw tightened, but he kept his chin high. “ Phrixus,” he snapped, “you will address your superior with the respect befitting a knight of the realm. I am here as the King’s envoy, not some common courier.”

Phrixus finally lifted his gaze. His face was unmarred by scars, his eyes oddly youthful for a man who’d clawed his way out of a dozen battlefields. He rose slowly, crossed to the window, and threw it open. “Storm’s coming,” he said, just as thunder cracked overhead.

The sky darkened in an instant. Summer storms on the coast were like the gods themselves throwing a tantrum. Clouds rolled in, low and heavy, and the wind howled like a pack of wolves. Dust from the training field swirled into the air, and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs grew louder, a relentless drumbeat that seemed to shake the very earth.

On the field below, the militia—a ragtag bunch of farmers and fishermen—huddled under scraps of cloth as the first drops of rain began to fall. Their leader, a portly man in a rusted breastplate, barked orders that no one heeded.

“Fat Dog!” one of the men shouted, using the nickname everyone knew but never said to the man’s face. “Even Lord Phrixus wouldn’t make us stand out here in this!”

“Aye,” another jeered. “You’re just l*****g his boots!”

The insults flew faster than the rain, and the militia captain—Sergeant “Fat Dog” to his men—looked ready to burst into tears. He’d been promised a proper drillmaster, but Phrixus had yet to deliver.

Then a voice cut through the chaos, calm but carrying. “Beat me, and you can go home.”

The men turned. Standing in the downpour was a boy—no, a young man—barely sixteen, his soaked uniform clinging to a lean, muscular frame. A thin scar ran across his cheekbone, more striking than the knight’s crest pinned to his chest.

No one moved. They knew him. Ares, the “Limping Knight,” the boy who’d fought his way out of the Blackwater m******e and lived to tell the tale. Some said it was luck. Others whispered he’d made a deal with the gods. Either way, he commanded respect.

“What?” Ares taunted, his voice sharp as a blade. “Not one of you will face a cripple?”

That did it. Nanibia, the blacksmith, stepped forward, stripping off his shirt to reveal arms thicker than Ares’ thighs. He lunged, aiming to crush the boy in a bear hug.

He never made it. Ares’ foot shot out, catching Nanibia’s leg mid-step and sending him sprawling. The blacksmith hit the mud with a grunt, and Ares was on him in an instant, a finger poised above his eye.

“Yield?”

Nanibia nodded, shamefaced, and scrambled back to the group. One by one, others stepped forward, and one by one, they fell. By the seventh, no one dared challenge him.

Ares turned to Fat Dog. “Start the drills,” he said, his tone far older than his years. “And if Poseidon himself rises from the waves, it won’t be because of the storm. It’ll be because he heard Amphitrite’s got a crush on me.”

The men laughed, the tension broken, and Ares felt a flicker of pride. These were his men now. His to train, his to lead. In a world where titles were cheap and loyalty scarcer than gold, a commander’s worth was measured by the strength of his soldiers.

And Ares intended to make them the strongest Argo had ever seen.

"This creed burned in his heart, unyielding, through every battle, every triumph, and every scar earned in his glorious ascent."