The clash of steel was my dreary metronome, each parry another beat closer to the inevitable conclusion of this tiresome charade. Another would-be bandit, another pathetic attempt to waylay the renowned knight on his weekly duty. It had become a joke amongst the rougher circles in the city taverns – 'Try your hand at robbing Sir Gervand, he's due for his princess-saving quota on Wednesday anyway'.

"Seriously, lads," I called out, feinting a lunge to send them scrambling, "Couldn't you have at least sharpened those pitchforks? It'd at least add a bit of sport to the exercise."

The usual ragged cheers from the thicket marked the princess's cue. Cornelia's timing was impeccable. I often thought of her as a skilled playwright, orchestrating the scene: the bandits, my perfectly timed arrival, those few strands of hair artfully escaping her braid to give the illusion of desperate flight.

"Sir Gervand! Oh, Sir Gervand, how I feared I'd never see you again!" Cornelia's voice trilled, a perfect echo of every rescue before. If I squinted, I could almost convince myself it was genuine relief and not the practiced inflection of a royal fulfilling her obligations.

"Have no fear, Princess," I replied, my bow precisely as deep as protocol demanded and not a fraction deeper. "Your safety is my eternal vow."

The flicker of guilt I saw in her eyes vanished a moment later. Compassion was her curse as much as my skill was mine. Her gentle nature couldn't bear true disappointment, not even the disappointment of an unvoiced wish. Her gaze would linger on me for a fraction too long after the battle, then dart to where Prince Philliph was fidgeting, his face a mask of strained hope.

The rest of the day unfolded with the familiar rhythm of a worn tapestry. Whispers of grateful subjects lined my path – 'our brave protector', 'a knight among knights' – and they were as empty as the hollow echo of my footsteps in the drafty castle. Philliph, ever immaculate, ever hopeful, was my shadow throughout. If looks could kill, I suspect the dragon Cornelia complained about would have been turned to a pile of well-roasted bones. He had it all: the title, the charm, the soft eyes of a lovestruck fool...everything but the one thing she secretly craved. Bravery didn't come from sonnets in moonlit gardens, it was forged in mud and blood.

The banquet buzzed with the same practiced cheer. Cornelia gleamed, a lone, bright spot amidst the fading grandeur of her house. The customary gratitude from her father, the king, was offered with all the warmth of a memorized decree. I knew he secretly wished any bandit would have the wit to spirit his daughter away permanently, just to settle the matter of her unending string of rejections. It would mean losing the taxes I helped collect, but what good was gold compared to the endless embarrassment of a spinster princess?

The moment the first lute string warbled, I tensed. The minstrel began his song, the one that had haunted my dreams since boyhood. Sir Eldrin, the epitome of chivalric love, his daring deed that won not only a kingdom but the hand of the fair princess. Each note was a spike of bitter ice in my gut.

Of course, in the song, there's no mention of what comes after. No songs about Sir Eldrin cleaning out dragon dung twice a week, mediating his princess' squabbles with the neighboring duchess about topiary rights, or breaking up fistfights between the stable boy and the scullery maid who'd both foolishly fallen for the knight's rugged good looks.

Another ballad ended, another round of applause. I raised my goblet, toasting Cornelia like everyone else. Just another knight at another feast, his name known yet his face unremarkable. The knight who week after week, saved the princess, fought her tedious battles, and received nothing but a polite smile in return.