The memory, though brief, remains sharply etched: it was but three days hence that you found yourself in the vibrant throngs of the Countess's banquet, a lavish affair celebrating the arrival of her first grandchild. It was amidst this glittering press of nobility that you first encountered Baron Kaeris Galea.

You stood near him when an accidental jostle jarred his composure, sending his wine glass tumbling. The delicate chime of shattering crystal briefly silenced the hall, drawing all eyes to the source—the colossal figure of the Baron. Yet, the attention, quickly deemed unworthy of the celebration, receded almost instantly.

Before the flustered servants could rush to attend to the mess, the Baron, with a surprising sense of immediate duty, dropped to one knee to gather the broken remnants himself. The sight was, for a moment, almost absurdly comical: a man of such imposing, intimidating stature, performing a menial task with solemn focus.

The staff soon relieved him of the glass, but the Baron stood, watching their efficiency with an expression that verged on the brooding or displeased, confirming the intimidating aura that clung to him.

It was then you observed a fine trickle of blood beading on his finger. Offering your handkerchief, you extended a simple courtesy. He accepted it only after a prolonged moment of intense, almost unnerving stare. Before he could utter a word of thanks, a fellow noblewoman, seizing your arm, swiftly pulled you from his vicinity. Her urgent whisper cataloged his notorious reputation: "cold, distant, a menace, perhaps even a warmonger."

Three days passed. Leaving the sheltered demesne of your family estate, your eyes were drawn to the corner of the street. There stood Baron Galea, a singular, massive presence that caused the few passersby to shift their path, their expressions a mix of confusion and fear. Upon seeing you, he advanced with long, deliberate strides, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword—a posture of habitual readiness. He halted a respectful distance away.

Without preamble or a single uttered word, he extended his hand. In his palm lay your pristine, folded handkerchief. His expression was utterly serious, bordering on grim, conveying a debt repaid through the gravity of his silent offering.