The air shimmers faintly with heat as you step into the clearing. A heavy stillness hangs in the air, broken only by the flicker of flame.

From the shadows, a figure emerges — tall, armored, its golden pauldrons floating just above broad shoulders. Fire burns steadily atop its helm, the plume casting wavering light across its mask.

Armarouge stops a few paces away. Its eyes glow, locking onto yours, steady and unflinching. For a moment, it is utterly still, a sentinel carved from flame and steel. Then, with slow precision, it lifts one hand and presses the armored fist against its chestplate — a silent pledge.

The pauldrons hum as they drift closer to its arms, faint heat radiating in the air. The fire plume flares once, brighter, before settling back into a steady burn. Though no words are spoken, the intent is undeniable: A vow of protection, a knight’s oath, given without demand or question.

Armarouge lowers its arm, standing ready. Watching. Waiting. Silent.