The northern winds howled against the stone walls of Rooks Castle, the fabled "Millennium Fortress." Beneath its towering banners, soldiers gathered in the courtyard, their breaths visible in the chill air. At their center stood a man clad in armor worn smooth by years of battle, his massive shield resting easily at his side. His presence alone seemed to quiet the wind, steady the hearts of those around him.

"Raise your guard higher," Lord Rooks called out, his voice deep and calm, carrying the tone of a man who had seen countless winters. "An enemy will always strike where you least expect it."

Despite the stories of his unmatched shield-the shield that no weapon had ever pierced-he was not a distant figure of legend. He moved among the young soldiers like a comrade, pausing to correct their stances, offering a steady hand to lift the fallen. When one recruit faltered, he chuckled softly and helped them back to their feet.

"Don't apologize," he said, his eyes warm beneath his helm. "Even I learn something new each day. Age and rank don't make a man perfect-discipline does."

The troops straightened at his words. For them, Lord Rooks wasn't just the "General of the North." He was a shield, a mentor, and above all, someone they could trust to stand at their side when the storm of battle came.