The wooden door slammed shut, and the echoes of boots stepping hard on the granite floor could be heard from any part of the corridor. There wasn't much to be spoken, or described about the man, of middle-age, perhaps in his late 40s, as the iron helmet masked away whatever features he had. That iron helmet, was a veil of anonymity, that kept his true identity a secret. An iron helmet, covered with ornaments and minute carvings either for runic enchantments, or decorative purposes, both conveyed and relayed the wearer's status and identity.

A knight.

The screech of iron as it scratched the surface, at times seemed melodic, at times it was evil to the core.

As he walked through the corridor, the pillars, walls and ornaments shivered, as if a ghost had just walked past, as if a gust of cold air had entered into the normally humid corridor.

He was the dark knight. The knight, who was celebrated by his people, and his king, but in truth, he was a demon's disciple, a frenzied warrior who called apon the blood powers to survive battle and triumph in war, a crafty, backstabbing tactician who used his minions and peers to aid his lust for glory.

With every trade with the dark lord, a part of his consciousness was eroded away, a part of the ethics he once had waned into dust, and a part of his love for his people faded. All, replaced with fanatical loyalty to the dark lord.

....

There was blood on his boots.

A grin crept up, sinister and satirical.

The king, he once served, is dead. The king, who adored and rewarded him like a prince, was killed with his own hands. The oath of loyalty and lordship was broken, the very same oath that he swore he wouldn't break even if his life depended on it many years ago.

It, would have been unspeakable to any knight worth his insignia.

Yet, it felt so sweet, without a tinge of regret or guilt. Just dark joy.