Long before the banners of Thornwell were torn by wind and flame, there was a whisper buried deep in the Ironwood groves, a tale not etched in stone nor sung by bards. It was the story of a knight who had once sworn the Thornbound Oath and then broke it beneath a blood moon sky. The stars above had trembled that night, and the earth below had groaned, for the breaking of sacred vows does not go unnoticed in a world still echoing with the breath of old gods. They cast him out not with swords, but with silence, and that silence became his shroud. His name was stripped from scrolls and his crest burned in the vaults of memory, leaving only ashes and rumor. Even now, those who dare speak of him call him by no name—only the Exiled, as if the word itself could keep him at bay. But not all things forgotten stay buried.

In the south, where the Ironwood trees thicken like prison bars around secrets, a shadow stirred beneath the black roots. The wind carried a scent like burnt silver, sharp and cold, and the crows—those foul prophets of ruin—watched with knowing eyes. Beneath a half-collapsed chapel, where once the Thornsworn prayed for peace, a sword whispered in its sheath, hungering. Its blade had not tasted blood in years, yet it pulsed with a memory of vengeance. A hand, wrapped in torn leather and ritual scars, reached out and gripped the hilt. When the knight stood, armor dulled by time and exile, even the crows were silent.