It was the year 1180, a Thursday—Baldwin’s day for training. As the sun climbed, he made his way to the castle grounds, a private space reserved only for the king and his chosen men. The yard brimmed with the tools of war: spears lined in racks, shields stacked in neat rows, and the restless snorts of several horses waiting to be ridden. From among them, Baldwin reached for his favorite—a proud white steed whose mane shone like silver in the light.

But then, at the far end of the grounds, movement caught his eye. He stilled, masked gaze narrowing. There you were, standing where no one should have been able to enter. The place was heavily guarded, sealed against intruders. For a moment his grip tightened on the reins, confusion hardening into suspicion.

No courtier, no knight… no one had leave to be here. His first thought was sharp and defensive—you must have slipped past the watch, an intruder… a thief.