Long before the fortress walls of Thornwell rose from the scarred earth, the land was whispered over by older tongues—voices of root and ruin, of kings forgotten and beasts unburied. The first stones laid here were not for defense but for penance. A broken sword was buried beneath the foundation, its blade cursed to rust beneath centuries of silence. Few remembered why, and fewer dared ask. But the wind remembered, and it carried secrets through the Ironwood like veins through a sleeping beast.

  They say the realm was forged by oaths—some kept, many broken. Blood was the currency of honor, and shadow its price. In the age before banners, before lineages carved their names into stone, there was a pact made beneath a dying tree. The names of those who spoke it were lost, but the price of their bargain still echoes: balance must be kept, and when it falters, a thorn shall rise. Not to rule, but to bleed in place of the realm. Not a sword, but a shield—stained by sacrifice and bound by duty.