Magnus walked along the darkened great hall of the Meridell Catacombs. Torchlight from a sconce gleamed faintly off his great hand-and-a-half sword, his armour creaked from lack of oil and polish. Why had he forgotten to do that? He never forgot because...because? 

Crack.

A sword echoed off bone and he raised his head to see Sir Renault fall to a golden-furred Lupe in Meridell's blue, red and grey livery. No, a true Squire of Meridell would never attack one of their own. It must've been a bandit, the coward had killed a poor Squire and stolen their armour. He'd not let the insult stand, the Squire's soul would find peace at his paw. With a roar of challenge, he turned to rush the bandit with a slash of his blade.

It was met with the clangour of a banded metal shield that shone with the sickly purple light of a Shadow mote. The mote started sapping his strength before the bandit tried to knock his sword aside and he retreated to a safe distance. This time he thrust for the gap between shield and throat, another clang. The force stunned him before bright white light flashed into his eyes.

Sunlight? It'd been a long time since he'd started guarding the Catacombs. Since he'd been outside. A very long time, he realized now. Once the taste of sweet Red Juppies had lain on his tongue and sunlight had flashed off his new lady wife's silver filet. His Lady, his Cassiopeia. The memories he had of her were faint, lavender mixed with salt water from the Brightvale Beach. How her dark red hair had complimented the sleek blackness of her fur and the bright gold of her eyes.

Stalwart, that was what she'd called him when they'd met after his first match in the Arena. He'd been Magnus the Stalwart, with Cassie's encouragement he'd managed to become Grandchampion of the Meridell Arena. They'd gone to Brightvale Beach to celebrate and what'd happened afterward?

Dark firs flashed through his mind, there'd been a swarm of bandits before a green-skinned Skeith brute had smashed a spiked club into his chest. Yes, it had hurt slightly but he'd just thought Renault and the others were playing a trick on him when he'd awakened in the tomb. After all, unseemly as it was for Knights First Class to do such things, they still happened from time to time. The last time he'd truly tired and not simply grown bored, the last time he'd needed to eat or sleep, was beyond his recall.

Had he died, then?

Magnus looked down into the smaller Lupe's eyes and saw fright tempered with determination in his eyes, the set of his ears. A Squire would never have feared a Knight who'd done him no wrong nor a Champion of the Arena in shining gold armour. A Squire would have feared a Knight who didn't look like one. A Knight without fur, skin, or muscle, that was naught but a mere skeleton driven by some unearthly desire to return from beyond the grave. His thoughts had always circled back to the bandits but he'd been bound by duty to protect the Catacombs. He'd always been unable to seek either his dear Cassie or said bandits. 

The Squire's sword flashed again with the brilliance of a Sun mote. Magnus let it hit him.

Cassiopeia's voice whispered into his ear. "Magnus? Magnus, can you hear me? I've been waiting for you. The bandits are long dead, my darling. Come away now, Renault is going to joust Ser Emmaline in the Tourney. We can't miss it, especially if he loses."

Magnus let Cassiopeia pull him upright and lead him toward the warm light beyond the tent flap. For the first time in possibly hundreds of years, contentment filled him.

When they next met he would have to thank the Squire. All he hoped was that it'd be a long time before they did.