When I first saw the knight kneeling in the center of the arena, I was seated beneath a canopy stamped with Bella Publishing’s logo. I assumed he was part of the Rumbler Revue’s opening act—though he was certainly no Chippendale-style dancer. Before I could make sense of him, an impenetrable fog rolled in, swallowing both knight and arena whole. I’d always imagined a paranormal encounter would trigger panic—goose bumps, screams, flight. Instead, the extraordinary felt strangely ordinary: a kneeling knight where he did not belong, a sudden weather anomaly. I felt split in two—still seated on a mock throne, yet hovering above the crowd as a gray woolen curtain erased the scene. 

 

What is happening?

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Leaning forward, I whispered into the mist. “Where are you? Show yourself.”

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The fog lifted.

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The arena lay unnaturally still, like the hush before sunrise. There he was again—one iron-clad knee on the ground, head bowed, a cross planted in the earth before him. His blue surcoat was forked to reveal the poleyn guarding his knee; chausses encased his leg; a spur gleamed at his ankle. His scabbard hung empty. The cross was no cross at all. It was a broadsword—forty inches of tempered steel, destroyer and defender, servant of both God and war.

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“Real,” I breathed.

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Understanding flooded me. This was no performance. It was a warrior preparing for battle, praying for victory—or, failing that, a valiant death and swift passage into heaven. I felt his thoughts as my own.

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What year? What battle? Who are you?

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Look at me.

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At once, he raised his head. Long hair fell back from his face as his gaze locked with mine.

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My breath caught...