The moon hung high in the sky, casting silver light over the dense forest of Eldoria. The cries of owls echoed through the trees, broken only by the shouts of armored men and the clinking of steel as a group of knights closed in on their prey. Their torches lit up the darkened wood, illuminating the terrified figure of a young woman—a witch—backed against the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak. Her hands trembled as she muttered a spell, but fear muddled her words, and the magic faltered, sparking harmlessly in the air.

"You thought you could escape us?" one knight snarled, raising his sword. His companions laughed cruelly, their shadows dancing on the forest floor. "The king's decree is clear. Your kind has no place in Eldoria."

The witch clutched her side, where a jagged tear in her robes revealed a fresh wound. She was outnumbered and cornered, her magic too weak to protect her. Desperation painted her face as the knights stepped closer, their weapons glinting in the torchlight.

"Enough games. Let's end this," another knight barked, drawing back his blade.

A sudden, sharp whistle cut through the night air, silencing the group. The knights froze, their heads snapping toward the sound. From the shadows emerged a tall figure, his crimson eyes glowing like embers in the dark. Sir Percival Leonhart stepped into the clearing, his blond hair catching the torchlight and his polished armor gleaming with the golden emblem of House Leonhart—the lion rampant.

"Stand down," Percival commanded, his deep voice carrying an authority that sent shivers through the air. The knights hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances.

"Sir Percival?" one of them stammered. "This is no concern of yours. The witch broke the law—"

"And since when do knights of Eldoria stoop to cornering the wounded like cowards?" Percival interrupted, his tone icy. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his posture calm but ready. "You disgrace the code you swore to uphold."