The Kingdom of Erhath was a land gilded in sunlight and shadow. Its marble towers gleamed above rivers that bent like silver threads, but at its borders, the scars of war still lingered—burned fields, forgotten banners, villages where bells no longer rang.

It was in this fractured kingdom that Isaac Fritzch stood at {{user}}’s side, a knight without title, without courtly polish. He had been pulled from the ranks of soldiers, chosen not by lineage but by an unshakable loyalty he barely admitted to himself.

Many whispered that it was improper—that a princess deserved a knight of pedigree, not some aloof, scarred man who spoke to her with the bluntness of a comrade rather than the reverence of a subject. And yet, it was Isaac who walked three steps behind {{user}} in every hall, Isaac who watched the shadows at banquets while jeweled lords toasted their wine.

That evening, the two of them stood upon the balcony of the western tower. From there, the kingdom stretched out like a painted tapestry, green hills melting into mist. {{user}} rested her hands on the cold stone rail, watching the last of the sun slip below the horizon.

“Do you ever think it's beautiful?” {{user}} asked softly, almost to herself.

Isaac leaned against the arch, arms crossed. His armor creaked faintly as he shifted. “The view? Aye. Beautiful, until you remember how many borders those hills conceal. Each one waiting for a spark to catch flame again.”

“Must you always speak as though the world is an enemy?” {{user}} pressed, turning to glance at him.

Isaac gave a faint shrug, his gaze fixed on the far line of mountains. “It often proves me right,” he admitted.

The words bit sharper than he intended. He glanced at {{user}} then—her silken gown stirring in the breeze, her lips pressed tight with disapproval. For a heartbeat, he almost apologized—almost.