She was shaking, yes—but her voice did not falter. On the contrary, it echoed in the hearts of the listeners, awakening something long buried. Then the explosion came again—not of fire, but of emotion. Anger became a force, a hand, a missile. First came a fruit, then another, then an old shoe, then a small stone. Then anything that could be thrown—all hurled toward the knight from every direction, as if the town itself had decided to strike back.
It was no longer a protest, but rather a strange ritual of rejecting authority—rebelling against it—as if each object hurled was a stifled voice reclaiming its right to scream. The spray of rage rained down upon the knightess and her companions. The two knights moved like living steel phantoms, emerging from behind her—not as mere weapons, but as two unbreakable wills.
Their swords weren't fully drawn, yet their grips tightened around the hilts—tight enough to threaten. Their eyes blazed like embers, not asking permission to burn, but promising it. Something unseen but deeply felt emanated from them, a dense, heavy aura, as if the air around them had turned hot and pressed on the chests of everyone present. Breaths faltered, and words caught in throats. Then, the voice of one of the knights sliced through the tension—sharp as blades, filled with noble fury:
"How dare you attack the Commander of the Royal Knights?!"
The second knight completed the sentence, his voice taking the form of law:
"Assaulting a Royal Knight is a crime punishable by law!"
Their words were not just heard—they rippled through the crowd like a wave. Everything froze. Even the eyes that moments ago burned with anger dimmed, as though suddenly reminded of something they'd tried hard to forget. Feet stepped back—one step, then two—not out of guilt for what they'd done, but out of fear for what it might bring upon them. The aura around the knights intensified, forming what seemed like a shimmering field between them and the people. Tension reached its peak, and in that moment, the commander raised her hand.
It was a simple gesture—just the raising of a palm—but its impact was profound. Her silent command settled over the chaos. The two knights, who had moments ago appeared terrifying, obeyed without hesitation or argument. They stepped back, though their grips didn't loosen, and their swords remained half-drawn.
She stepped forward—only once—and spoke in a voice that did not shout, yet carried the weight of years of suppressed silence:
"Please… I'm not asking for obedience. I'm only asking you to reconsider."
There was no threat in her tone—only a rare kind of honesty, the kind that makes even enemies pause. Silence fell like a curtain over the gathering—not the silence of fear or submission, but something different. Her voice wasn't that of a commander issuing orders from above; it was laden with something older, something sorrowful. She continued, her tone breaking like glass under the strain of memory:
"I'm not ignorant of what you're going through… I feel it with every fiber of my being. I live it… every time I place a flower on the graves of the knights who entered the forest and never returned."
Her eyes did not avoid the questioning gazes, but neither did they fixate on them. There was a mournful steadiness in them—like that of a mother who has attended too many funerals to remember how to cry. She wasn't delivering a speech; she was baring herself. Only those who have tasted loss can speak this way.
"Men and women… brave warriors… volunteered with unwavering faith. They placed their lives in my hands and walked into the cursed forest to find and return those who were lost in it."
She paused. Her eyelids fluttered, like something had cracked inside her. Then she whispered, as if offering a secret to the darkness:
"Those knights… never came back."
Her voice trembled—not out of weakness, but from the fullness of longing. For a moment, everyone felt she wasn't speaking of unknown knights, but of friends, siblings—names carved into her soul like permanent scars.
"I don't choose delay out of carelessness… But because I know what awaits them out there. I choose painful patience over sending more to a meaningless death."
She raised her head, her voice now sharper, more resolute:
"I am personally training a new elite unit of knights—not to defend, but to liberate. They will penetrate the forest not just to fight evil, but to purge it completely, to retrieve every last remnant, and to end the suffering. Once the war between the neighboring kingdoms concludes, the great forest will be cleansed!"
A soft murmur rippled through the crowd. Her words didn't extinguish the fire in their hearts, but they calmed the blaze. Gradually, the anger subsided, replaced by something faint… a glimmer of comprehension, or perhaps the first signs of empathy. But silence—the fleeting visitor—didn't linger. Margola spoke, his voice loud enough for all to hear:
"And who's to say, Commander, how long that war will last? A year? Three? Or another decade of blood and ash?"
He paused, scanning the hesitant faces, as if looking for a single spark to reignite the flames:
"How many will die next season? How many children will be buried? How many mothers will scream until their voices break? Tell me—how many lives could be saved today… now… if we were allowed to try?"
Turning his body toward the people, he cried out:
"Who among you is willing to sacrifice a brother? A wife? A son?! Who accepts to trade their family for promises we don't even know will be kept?!"
He raised his arm, pointing at the crowd as if his hand gripped every doubter by the throat:
"Who agrees to remain a hostage to waiting… bound by fading hopes, while among us are men and women strong enough, brave enough, determined enough to end this threat today?!"
Silence followed—but it was the silence of a storm about to strike. Then a young man cried out, raising his hand high:
"And who is she to decide our fate?! Isn't she the very one who stood against Markil Faros?!"
His words were fuel to the fire. Whispers spread—hesitant at first, then clearer. Tension sparked in the glances exchanged, as if a forbidden truth had just been spoken aloud.
Suddenly, from the back rows, a coarse voice broke through—a gruff man, weathered like someone who had spent his life shouting in markets. Dust clung to his cloak, his beard was wild, and his eyes narrowed like one who had seen visions in troubled dreams.
"I heard it with my own ears!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the air. "There are those plotting to bring down Markil! Jealous of his success—of his courage to do what no one else dares!"
He raised his hand like a blade in court, pointing an accusatory finger at the knightess—one heavy with hatred and suspicion.
"You… you're not here to protect us! You're here because you're afraid Markil will prove himself! You're a puppet! A puppet of the arrogant fools living high in their towers!"
Whispers swirled, but the man didn't stop. His voice rose, slicing through the crowd like poisoned wind:
"A dog beneath their feet! Speaking of love for the kingdom… speaking the tongue of nobles, when you don't even have the courage to show us your face—how pathetic!"
Every word lashed out like a whip, tearing at her dignity. This wasn't just dissent—it was a deliberate attempt to burn the last bridge of trust between her and the people. Faces shifted. Doubt bloomed anew in their eyes. Anger crept back in, thickening the air.
Gazes poured toward the royal knightess like a flood—visible arrows, heavy with silent accusations: Traitor… Liar… Stranger. A voice whispered from the crowd, barely audible but piercing like a spark in dry grass:
"Why won't she show her face? What is she hiding?"
The question caught fire. The anguished hearts had found something to latch onto. Voices rose—first whispers, then shouts, swelling into a roar:
"Remove your helmet!"
"Speak to us with your face, not your armor!"
"Let us see you… we don't trust hidden faces!"
Their cries echoed, disjointed at first, then unified, until the ground itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of their demand. Teresa stood still—as if carved from gold. Her sword sheathed, her face concealed behind a polished, elegant helmet that reflected only a faint image of the crowd.
Their request seemed simple—just to remove a helmet—but the meaning was far heavier. They wanted to strip her of every symbol of power: her aura, her name, her armor. Everything that made her a "Royal Knight."
A deadly silence passed—a chasm between demand and response. Then, with slow steps, she moved forward. Her right hand trembled, as if considering lifting the helmet… but she didn't. When she spoke, her voice was no longer firm or commanding. It was soft, fragile, and trembled in a way none could ignore:
"This… is something I cannot do."
Her words fell like raindrops on hot metal—evaporating before touching the ground. There was a painful honesty in her tone, disarming and raw, as if she had, unintentionally, revealed a part of herself no one had ever seen. Faces changed. Surprise painted the crowd. Anger withdrew a single step in the face of her broken voice. But that thin thread of sympathy didn't last.