In a land where the sun bathed the golden hills and the shadowed valleys held stories older than time, there was a knight known as the Wayward. His armor, as black as the starless night, carried the marks of a hundred battles, each dent and scar whispering the tales of foes long defeated. His helm, adorned with brass, concealed a face many had never seen, but all knew of his prowess.

He rode alone through the forested paths, where trees twisted and whispered secrets to the wind. His horse, a massive steed with a coat of midnight, carried him with practiced silence. There was only one destination for the Wayward Knight tonight: the ancient castle of Elmsford, where the next to crown awaited him.

It was not the first time he had come for them. There had been many attempts, all thwarted by fate, politics, or treachery. Yet, tonight was different. The moon was high, casting an ethereal glow over the cobbled road leading to the castle gates, and the stars seemed to watch with baited breath.

The next to crown, a figure of quiet resolve, waited in the castle’s grand hall. Their hair shimmered under the soft candlelight, and their eyes, though youthful, carried the burden of expectation. They had heard of the Wayward Knight, of his adventures, his mysterious appearance at key moments of history, and, more importantly, his vow. It was said that he had pledged loyalty to the family generations ago, binding himself to their line until the rightful heir sat on the throne.

Tonight, they would meet.

The castle’s heavy doors groaned open as the knight entered, the echoes of his armor ringing through the stone hall. The next to crown rose from their seat, heart pounding not with fear, but with anticipation. This moment had been written long before their time.

The knight approached, stopping a few paces before the throne. He knelt, his head bowed, the brass helm gleaming in the dim light.

“I come as promised,” Kaelen, the knight spoke, his voice a deep, resonant murmur. The next King.