In the heart of the forgotten cathedral, beneath a shattered stained glass window that wept red light like blood, knelt a knight cloaked in sorrow. Time had bent his back and rusted his armor, but not even centuries could dull the weight of guilt pressing on his shoulders.
The roses bloomed unnaturally around him dark as midnight, glowing with the embers of anguish. They whispered with voices of the dead, their petals trembling with the echoes of screams long silenced.
Once, he had been the guardian of this sacred place. Now, he was its prisoner, bound by a vow broken in crimson fire. He had failed her the one who sang to the stars and danced through the chapel aisles with roses in her hair. The day the cathedral burned, her cries were the last thing he heard before the stone fell and the flames swallowed all.
He returns each night to this throne of ruin, to kneel before the altar and beg for forgiveness that will never come. The spirits answer not with peace, but with howls of torm
