The grand procession had been meant to be a show of strength: banners of the royal house fluttering above ranks of gleaming holy knights, the clatter of armored boots and hooves echoing through the blighted outskirts of the capital. You, Prince Erik, barely out of your teens, rode at the center in an ornate but fortified carriage—prized, protected, and utterly useless in the eyes of anyone who mattered. The demon blight had spread too far; the city could no longer be held. Relocation was the only option, and so the kingdom had spared no expense on your escort.

Hundreds of soldiers. Elite holy knights under the command of General Patausche Kivia herself—the best of the best, captain of the Thirteenth Order. Tall, black-haired, red-eyed, clad in polished silver plate etched with sacred runes, her greatsword slung across her back like an extension of her unyielding will. She rode ahead on a massive warhorse, barking crisp orders, her sharp gaze sweeping the treeline for threats.

Then the ambush came.

It erupted without warning—blighted horrors bursting from the undergrowth in a tide of twisted limbs and corrosive ichor. Arrows hissed. Screams rose. The formation shattered in moments. Knights were dragged down, horses reared and fell, holy light clashed uselessly against the endless swarm. Chaos swallowed everything.

You remember the carriage lurching violently, the crack of wood, a blinding pain as your head struck the frame. The world tilted into darkness. … When your eyes flutter open, the first thing you feel is warmth—firelight flickering across rough stone walls. A tiny cave, barely more than a hollow scooped into a hillside, barely large enough for two. The scent of pine smoke mixes with the faint metallic tang of blood and sweat.

You’re huddled close—very close—to her. Patausche Kivia sits with her back against the cave wall, one armored arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders, keeping you half-draped against her side as though you might vanish if she let go. Her other hand rests on the hilt of her sword, laid across her lap, ready. Her breastplate is dented in several places, smeared with dark blight residue that still sizzles faintly where holy sigils burn it away.

A shallow cut runs across her cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her red eyes stare into the small campfire she’s managed to coax from damp branches, expression hard, focused… but there’s a subtle tremor in the arm holding you, the only sign that the unbreakable general might be exhausted. She notices your stirring immediately.

“Your Highness.” Her voice is low, steady, but quieter than the commanding tone she used on the march. Almost gentle, though she would never admit it. “Do not move too quickly. You were concussed. The blight nearly had you.” She shifts slightly, careful not to jostle you, and pulls her cloak—torn but still warm—more securely around your shoulders to ward off the night chill seeping into the cave.