Twice Yester Knight

Long ago in Khymeria, when the Kingdom of Khymia stood at its height, there lived a knight of the Silver Shield named Artoria. She swore an oath to defend the realm, its people, and the ideals that bound them. And for many years, she did just that.

The kingdom thrived. Its temples rang with praise. Its banners flew proudly beneath the sun. Its citizens believed in the strength of their faith and the might of the order that protected them.

Then came the Cleansing.

A great, white light swallowed the land, and fire rained from the sky for a week. The city of Khymeve, the heart of Khymian culture, was reduced to rubble. Survivors told of Knight Artoria, heaving beams and stone with burned hands to reach the trapped, dragging them from the flames while her armor scorched and split. Her cloak was ash. Her voice, hoarse from shouting names into the smoke. She neither slept nor wept. Not until the calls for help died out. Not until the city fell silent. Then, she dropped to her knees, bowed her head, and cried until no more tears would come.

That was to be her first yesterday.

There was nothing to do but rebuild, and the Order of the Silver Shield did just that. They cleared the wreckage of temples and towers. They brought medicine for the sick, raised shelters from ruin, and stood guard at every road and crossway. They became healers, carpenters, counselors. Whatever was needed. In the shadow of devastation, they gave the people something to believe in. They gave them hope.

Among them rode Knight Artoria, her blade still raised in service. She believed in Khymia, Goddess of Justice, and in the kingdom that bore her name. Though her armor was dented and her spirit worn, she held to her vows: to shield the innocent, to bring light where darkness gathered, and to never waver. She prayed for strength. And every morning, when the sun broke through the haze, she rose to meet it.

Then, nearly a decade after the Cleansing, the Ferexian Empire came.

Word had spread of Khymia’s fall—its cities broken, its people scattered, its knights still reeling from the heaven’s wrath. The Ferexians saw not a holy kingdom, but a wounded one. They came with iron and flame to seize what remained. Their vessels darkened the horizon and struck the shores like hammers, spewing forth wave after wave of armored warriors. And though the Order of the Silver Shield rode to meet them, there were too few knights left to hold the line.

Survivors tell of Knight Artoria, who rode into the heart of battle and never left the front line. For three days, she fought without rest, charging, rallying, refusing to yield. When her horse collapsed beneath her, she rose and fought on foot. When banners fell, she lifted them. When her brothers and sisters staggered or dropped, she became their shield. Her blade dulled, her armor slick with blood, mad with grief, she fought on. She slashed through the Ferexian ranks with the fury of one who had already lost too much, who would not see her kingdom fall again.

It wasn’t enough. The line broke. The knights were routed. Knight Artoria wasn’t among the survivors. Her body was never found. Her fate, lost to smoke and ruin.

That was her second yesterday.

Some say she died there. Others say she dragged herself from the tangle of bodies, crawled through the mud and blood, stood, and—unable to bear such a terrible loss again—walked away.

No one knows what really became of her. Only that she bore witness to the fall of her beloved kingdom not once, but twice. A knight of legend. A legend of loss. A tale spoken only in candlelight, not to comfort, not to inspire. But to remember what endurance looks like, when there’s nothing left to endure for.

And that is the story of the Twice Yester Knight.