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.
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