He walks forward wearing only a simple tunic, the same one the Merlin of the Forest gave him. His feet are bare. His face is weathered but calm. His eyes hold the deep stillness of someone who has climbed the Mountain of Self-Knowledge and wept on its peak. Inside, the hall is cold. Dust covers the long banquet table. His chair at the head—once carved with dragons and laurels—is empty. He runs his fingers along its back and feels not the wood, but the memory of how heavy his armor used to feel when he sat here, barking orders, drinking wine, mistaking fear for authority.
“Señor?” she whispers. “You… you are not wearing your armor.” final de el caballero de la armadura oxidada regresa a casa
“I climbed the Mountain of Truth,” he says. “I saw my own reflection in a lake of tears. I learned that I didn’t love you because I didn’t know how to love myself.” He walks forward wearing only a simple tunic,