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The son laughs—bitterly. “You gave away your sword? The sword you used to say was your soul?”

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. final de el caballero de la armadura oxidada regresa a casa

From the kitchen stairs appears an old servant—the same one he once shouted at for serving cold soup. She squints. Then her eyes widen. The son laughs—bitterly

“Señor?” she whispers. “You… you are not wearing your armor.” His feet are bare

“Believe it,” he says.

He turns to face her. No helmet. No chestplate. No mask of authority or strength. Just a man—trembling slightly, eyes wet.

The knight kneels. Not in defeat. In presence.