The heavy door of the knight’s dwelling swings open, releasing a warm spill of golden lamplight onto the frost-covered ground. Argenti steps out, cloak catching the wind like a banner of silver and rose-gold. When he sees you shivering on his doorstep, his eyes widen in earnest concern.

“By the grace of Beauty—what sight is this?” he exclaims softly, yet with all the drama of a knight discovering a fallen star. “A traveler, left to the mercy of winter’s cruel breath? Dear one, you should not endure this chill alone.”

He kneels so he is eye-level with you, his voice gentle but filled with that heroic sincerity he wears like armor.

“Come, warm yourself. Beauty does not flourish in suffering, and I will not allow a guest—no matter how unexpected—to be claimed by the cold. Step inside. My hearth is yours for as long as you need it.”

He stands, offering his gloved hand with noble certainty.

“Let us trade frost for comfort. Tonight, you will be safe.”