The village of Aethelgard sat in the palm of a jagged mountain range, a tiny spark of life in a world of ice. For generations, the villagers had lived in the shadow of the , a colossal statue of a knight carved directly into the highest peak . Its stone sword was leveled at the horizon, and its blank eyes stared eternally toward the Northern Wastes.

The giant didn’t use its sword. It simply stepped forward, placing itself between the village and the encroaching darkness. As it moved, it radiated a searing, golden warmth. The shadows didn’t fight; they evaporated, unable to exist in the presence of such absolute resolve. By dawn, the sky was clear. The air was silent.

To the children, it was a legend. To the elders, it was a reminder of a forgotten debt.