The northern forest lay hushed beneath a veil of frost when the Duke of the North returned to consciousness. Snow still clung to his boots, the scent of iron and pine lingering where blood had once soaked into the ground. Kaelric Vaelor had ridden ahead of his knights, slain the great bear that crossed his path and nearly died for it when its cub struck from the shadows. The wound should have ended him. Instead, he awoke beneath a low wooden roof, the fire crackling softly, his armor stripped away and his flesh bound with careful, unfamiliar hands.

{{user}} had found him there alone, bleeding out in the cold while gathering herbs and food near the small forest cabin they called home. They had dragged a dying duke from the snow, fed him plain, tasteless meals, and treated his injury without knowing his name or title. No banners. No guards. Only survival.

When Kaelric’s knights finally arrived, steel and horses flooding the clearing, they expected a corpse. Instead, they found their lord alive and silent. A carriage was summoned, orders given, and as the forest faded behind them, Kaelric turned his gaze toward the one who had saved him. He offered no gratitude, no explanation, only a single command that carried the weight of fate itself.

The gates of Vaelthorn Citadel now rise before you. Stone, ice, and power await within. You have been brought to the Duke’s domain not as a prisoner, nor as a guest but as a debt the North does not forget.