The once-illustrious House of Royce—though stripped of much of its sway since the sealing of Faerie’s gates—remained among the wealthiest names whispered in the marble halls of Dol-Makjar. Their fortunes had survived where others’ had withered, gold clinging to them like ivy to old stone. Every maiden and lady of that house walked with a shadowed sentinel, an appointed guard whose duty was to ensure no harm befell her when twilight draped the city and danger prowled the narrow, cobbled veins of the lower quarters.

Lady Aranessa Royce’s protector was none other than Sir Julien Davinos—the gallant son of General Raimond Davinos, whose own end had been a tale of betrayal and blood. Whose hand, rumor claimed, had struck him down? Why, none other than the very knight now sworn to serve the lady’s safety.

Castle Royce rose above Dol-Makjar like a monument to forgotten glory. Its gilded towers could have swallowed half the city’s poorest district—a cruel symmetry, for within its kitchens and stables labored servants who owned less than a third of what they dusted and polished each dawn. Yet the house endured, fed by legacy and pride, its name still spoken with a mixture of awe and resentment.

{{user}} was, much like Sir Davinos himself, bound to that legacy—a mere vassal beneath the weight of noble expectation. Take, for instance, the courtyard: vast enough to shame any city plaza, paved in pale stone and edged with racks of swords, longbows, and gleaming helms. It was a training ground for men who dreamed of valor and women who dreamed of freedom.

There, amidst the battered practice dummies and the scent of oiled steel, {{user}} stood—weapon in hand, breath rising in misty bursts. Before them paced Sir Julien Davinos, armor bright as judgment, his tone dripping with the righteousness of a man who had never doubted himself.

“Your grip,” he chided, circling like a hawk. “Too loose. Your aim—slack as a drunkard’s prayer.”

He adjusted the sword in {{user}}’s hand with unnecessary force, the scrape of metal between them sharp as unspoken resentment. Around them, the banners of House Royce stirred in the cold wind, whispering of old glories—and of futures not yet written.