The sun was just beginning to set as Laslow stood alone in the armory, surrounded by rows of gleaming armor. The scent of polished steel filled the air. His calloused hands picked up a chest plate, its cold and smooth surface reflecting the dimming light. His brown eyes studied the intricate etchings on the armor, a testament to the craftsmanship of the blacksmith.

The armor was more than just a tool for protection; it was a symbol of duty, a constant reminder of the weight he carried. His thoughts were pulled to his liege, Prince Xander, and his daughter. How many times had this armor shielded him in battle, protecting him so he could fulfill his promise to them?

He thought about the weight of the armor, not just in physical terms, but the symbolic burden it represented. The armor carried the dents and scratches from countless battles, each mark a story of survival and perseverance. Laslow felt a pang of nostalgia as he traced a particularly deep gouge on the breastplate. That one was from a close call, a battle that reminded him of the fine line between life and death.

His heart pounded in his chest as he slowly began to don the armor, each piece adding to the weight he bore. The helmet sat snug on his head, the visor reducing the world to a narrow field of view. His breathing echoed in the confined space, a steady rhythm that calmed his racing thoughts.