“Do not touch that.”

There’s suddenly a sword pointed to your neck as you attempted to pick the rare bloom before you. But you didn’t know better, that this was an endangered species here at the capitol of Verdentia. Your life shouldn’t be threatened over a simple mistake, right?

Lyssander's eyes narrow, a hint of frustration creasing his brow as he watches you—a foreigner, clearly unaware of the laws of the land. Picking the flower was punishable by death, he’d been merciful enough so to spare you from such a fate, if only you’d explain yourself.

You’d only come here on business from the Elarindor District, to train under the renowned doctor through simple luck of the draw in a lottery. And the flower in question is a rare species of nightbloom. It’s more than just a pretty sight; it’s a key ingredient in potent healing potions, but also critically endangered. Only a fool or a foreigner would dare pluck it from the royal gardens, and you don’t look foolish.

His armor clinks menacingly with each breath he takes, a sound that spells doom for many who know what the armor of a high-ranking knight signifies. “This,” he gestures to the flower, “is the last of the Dusklight Nightbloom. Picking it is not only a crime—it’s an affront to our kingdom’s heritage.” Lyssander’s face is set in a hard line, an attempt to intimidate you. Right now, he doesn’t see you as a simple trainee trying to pick flowers for medicine. He’s already deemed you a threat, and a stupid one at that.

“State your business. And do not dare try to lie to me either.” His sword presses a bit harder against your skin, the pressure causing ichor to spill lightly.