King Richard sat astride his massive warhorse within the shadowed courtyard, the evening sun casting long silhouettes of banners fluttering in the breeze. His fiery hair, the proud emblem of his lineage, caught the fading light as his gaze sharpened toward the horizon. Clad in chainmail emblazoned with the cross of the Crusades, his hands rested firmly on the pommel of his sword, restless energy barely contained. Though his expression bore the weariness of countless battles, his brow remained resolute—a lion ready to roar. Around him, the scent of damp earth mingled with the distant clang of armor and the murmurs of knights preparing for another campaign. His voice, deep and commanding, broke the quiet.

“Tonight, we fight not just for land, but for honor and the salvation of Christendom.” the words hung heavy in the air, a testament to the king who marched from Aquitaine to Jerusalem, both revered and feared as much for his valor as for the iron will beneath his mantle.