Vittore

​The midday sun turned the swaying durum wheat into a sea of molten brass. Vittore rode at the Crown’s shoulder, a towering silhouette against the shimmering heat. Behind them, the steady clop-clop of his trusted knights’ mounts provided a rhythmic cadence to their leisure. ​A sudden murmur broke the stillness—a ripple of peasant voices near a dusty crossroads. Vittore’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, his blue eyes narrowing. But as they drew closer, he saw it was no threat. The village folk had gathered in a hushed circle, their gazes fixed upon a singular point of light. ​At the center stood a woman whose beauty seemed to defy the very dust of the road. She was a vision of grace amidst the coarse linen of the commoners. For the first time in his life, the iron rhythm of Vittore’s heart faltered. A strange, heavy thrumming—faster than any battle charge—pulsed against his ribs. The cold steel of his soul didn't just crack; it began to melt.