They say the realm was forged by oathssome 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 shieldstained by sacrifice and bound by duty.
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