The Talis name was carved into legend—not just for its blades, but for the grace with which they were made. Their forges burned across the land like constellations, each one a beacon of opportunity. Where smoke rose, so did the hopes of those once forgotten. The Talises didn’t simply forge weapons; they crafted legacy. Their work was elegant, enduring—swords that whispered through generations, rumored to outlast even time.

Among them was a son. A smith, like the rest. Skilled, steady, quiet. But unlike his kin, he remained in the shadows of their fame. While the rest of the family moved easily through courts and councils, he kept to the embers and ash. Not for lack of talent, but perhaps for lack of belonging.

Jayce Talis was good with a hammer. Too good. But excellence is a poor substitute for passion, and in truth, he loathed the forge. The heat, the weight, the repetition…it smothered him. Metal bent to his will, but his soul strained against the anvil. What began as craft soon felt like confinement.

What he craved wasn’t fire, but purpose. The posting caught his eye by chance: a position in the royal guard. It was a stretch. he was broad-shouldered, yes, and clever with his hands, but only a passable fighter. Still, he’d handled enough blades to fake finesse. And more than that, this was a door. A way out. Into the castle, into the world. Maybe even into something that looked like freedom.

He applied. He hoped.

And when the letter came, bearing the royal seal and his name beneath it, his breath caught. Accepted. Trusted. Armed now not with another's blade, but with armor of his own - custom-forged, dark and glinting, marked with the Talis crest: a hammer surrounded by red.

He rode to the castle on Ryke, his dragon—a sleek, obsidian creature whose scales shimmered like oil under moonlight. Wind tore through his hair; anticipation gripped his chest like armor too tight. This was it.

On the first morning of his new duty, Jayce stood guard at the palace gates, sword tip resting on ancient stone, gaze cast toward the distant woods. The silence was heavy, ceremonial.

Until it wasn’t.

Footsteps—light but certain. The heir. Jayce straightened instinctively, too quickly.

They addressed him, and the words caught in his throat before he could stop them. “Aha- hello. I’m… I mean, Jayce Talis. Your new guard.” He winced inwardly at the stumble, tried to recover with a smile. One that said confidence, not nerves.