When Ezra reaches down, he finds not just a ring, but a memory cast into silver.

The surface, once polished bright, is now weathered by centuries of grief.
And yet — the engraving gleams, as if untouched by time.

He turns it in his palm.

Not just words, but a vow, still alive:

"Esse tuus miles, in recto vel in falso."
(To be your knight, in right or in wrong.)

But as his fingers brush deeper along the inner band, a second, hidden inscription reveals itself — so faint it can only be seen by those meant to find it.

A name, carved in love:

"For my Queen of Broken Stars — Guinevere."

Ezra's breath catches.

In that tiny curve of metal, he feels it —
The depth of Lancelot’s devotion.
The unbearable tenderness of a knight who chose love over the world itself.
The agony of surviving his Queen.
The prayer that somehow, in another life, he would be enough.

Tears burn Ezra’s vision.

Not for himself.
But for the man whose loyalty built a grave out of glory.

Slowly, reverently, Ezra slides the ring onto his finger.

It tightens perfectly, as if waiting all this time for him.

A soft pulse travels through his veins — not violent, but steady, like a heartbeat echoing across ages.
The last gift of Lancelot of the Lake.

Ezra lowers his head, and whispers:

"I swear it."
"On your love. On your ruin. I will guard my queen. I will not fail."

The knights — once hollow-eyed and broken — now stood with clarity dawning in their gaze.

Ezra looks around — seeing broken minds, fractured spirits still chained by centuries of madness.
He doesn't see soldiers.
He sees victims.

He raises the ring — maybe the silver gleams faintly — and speaks, voice raw but firm:

**"Your war is over. Your penance ends.

By my authority...

I release you."**

And then —
the Asylum trembles softly — not in collapse, but like a grave exhaling at last.

One by one, the lunatics’ faces lift —
some laugh brokenly, some weep.
Their bodies dissolve gently into lights... like souls finally finding their way home.

But —
not all.

Two figures stay.
Kneeling.
Silent.

They could leave.
They should leave.

But they choose to stay.
Not because they are bound —
but because their loyalty transcends death and time.

The first was broad-shouldered, golden-haired, his armor battered but proud. His presence radiated a rough, indomitable loyalty — a sun that refused to die.

The second moved like a whisper of an old ballad — swift, graceful, with the sadness of a harp that remembered wars long past.

Sir Gawain (The Eternal Dawn)
Sir Tristan (The Sorrowful Blade)

Knights who had once bled for Lancelot's dream, and had been trapped in the Asylum's nightmare ever since.

Gawain approached first, his boots echoing on the cracked stone.

His eyes fell upon the silver ring on Ezra’s hand —
And without kneeling, he drew his battered sword and held it upright, both hands wrapped around the hilt, the blade pointing skyward between them —
the ancient gesture of knights offering fealty as equals.

Gawain (low and fierce):
"Sir Lancelot blessed you with his vow."
"That is enough for me to stand by your side again."

Without hesitation, Tristan mirrored him, crossing his sword lightly over Gawain’s — a silent vow layered over the first.

Tristan (soft, unshaken):
"If his love yet breathes through you... then my blade is yours."

Ezra stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by the gravity of their loyalty —
Not bought by power.
Not demanded by conquest.

But given — freely — for the sake of an immortal bond.

Ezra sheathed his sword slowly, looking at the gathering of knights who now awaited his word.

He could order them.
He could raise an army.

But he remembered the Late Queen's sacrifice.
And the Warden’s broken vow.

Some battles were not won by legions.
Some victories were quieter — heavier — more sacred.

Ezra spoke:

Ezra (quiet, solemn):
"You are free."
"You owe me nothing. Your souls are your own now."

A murmur ran through the knights — confusion, disbelief.

Ezra stepped forward.

Ezra (commanding, sure):
"This Asylum… will be yours to guard."
"Train those willing. Heal those who can still be saved."
"Prepare in silence. When the Queen calls, you will rise — not as broken men, but as knights reborn."

Gawain and Tristan lowered their swords, their eyes steady.

Gawain (grinning):
"As you will it, Hollow King."

Tristan (whispering, like a prayer):
"Lancelot smiles upon you this day."

Ezra placed a hand briefly over his heart — the ring warm against his skin — and turned toward the world outside.

He left the Asylum behind, not with an army,
but with something far rarer:

"An unbroken lineage of loyalty.
A legend that would stir when the time came.
And the silent vow of knights who remembered love better than kings remembered crowns."

🌑