No Longer

The charming glades of Elysium have never looked so grand and daunting as they do now, armour weighing down Venice’s shoulders and pinning them to the ground with each step. It’s not like them to be so serious, heavy and solemn with destiny’s palm upon their shoulder. Nonetheless, their jaw is square and their eyes steady, not a step out of line as they ascend to the feet of their benevolent ruler. They kneel reverently.

“Sir Thornweaver has made a good knight of you, Nameless.”

Venice dares not make eye contact, their gaze fixated on the ground. Their gaze traces the lines of the roses carved into the marbled tile at their feet. Nameless they may be, for they have not been Named, but assuming everything proceeds as it should, that’s something that will change today. No longer will they be Venice Nofather, the unruly adopted whelp of Isem. The scarlet fields running red with the blood of slain beasts has seen to that.

They incline their head slightly in deferential acknowledgement.

“You may rise, Nameless.”

Venice stands, finally meeting the eye of the one to decide their destiny. Their fate. Their place in the world. And their first thought, beyond any notions of honour or awe or even respect, is that the ruler of Elysium looks surprisingly frail and breakable. Were they a beast, Venice could cleave through them with one arc of their blade and watch them fall to the ground, blood as red as rose petals.

“Three centuries have passed since the last Royal Rose knight of your age was dubbed as such. It’s not an honour we offer to many youths.”

Yes, they know, and yet they hope. No, not hope — hunger.

“Your mentor, Sir Thornweaver, did not achieve his rank until he was of a much greater age.”

Anticipation, hanging on every word.

“It seems you have striven to outshine even him.”

The feeling of their chest bursting, heart racing in an explosion of — what? Satisfaction? Happiness?

They’ve got what they wanted. Or, no, they’ve got what others expected them to want. The Royal Rose status and, finally, a name.

“Follow me, Nameless.”

They walk with their liege lord step for step, watching as they push the doors open to the royal gardens, and oh. There are so many people, all of them here to see Venice. Little Venice, the town scamp, now all grown up and receiving the highest honour in the nation.

It’s ceremony, it’s tradition, it’s a song as old as time, and then Venice is before the monarch with fire burning in their eyes as they listen to those words they once only knew from history books.

“It is time for the Naming.” A smile creases the corner of the monarch’s face as the onlookers gasp and cheer.

“Venice.” It’s the first and last time the monarch will ever speak their name. “You came from a place with no name of your own. No noble blood or house to share.”

From fistfights in alleyways to noble jousts, it’s true.

“You’ve shown time and time again your skills and determination, and you have earned the love of the kingdom.”

Love? It’s hard to quantify such a thing. Venice is certainly adored and loathed, both in good measure.

“As such, it brings me no greater joy than to present you with your new title.”

A deep inhale. A slow exhale.

“From this day forth, you will be known as Sir Wolfheart. For your loyalty, strength, courage, and love for all those you hold dear.”

And now, the Thorn Mark, the physical brand that all Royal Roses carry. The monarch brushes their fingertips across both of Venice’s cheeks, then one stroke over their forehead. Venice draws the thorn from its scabbard, feeling the weight of it press into their palms.

And then plunges it into their chest, straight through the heart.

All around them, raucous voices cry out in jubilation. Wolfheart! Wolfheart! Wolfheart!

They are no longer Nameless, nor are they Venice of Isem. Now, they are Sir Wolfheart, and forever they will be.

"Wolfheart," they murmur, inaudible over the cheering of the crowds. Victor, they think in the quiet corner of their mind. And as the blood drips from the spear through their chest, flowers begin to bloom.