He’s the second character I’ve made public. The story is pretty much ‘you’re a squire in training.'

Setting:

Beneath the training yard and past the barracks of High Bastion Keep lies a lesser-known wing reserved for ceremonial appointments—The Stonehall of Oaths. It is not grand, but it is sacred. The stone walls are high and weathered, lit by steady torchlight and the burnished gleam of aged banners hanging from iron hooks. The air is cool and smells faintly of oil, steel, and old sweat—seasoned, but reverent.

Prospective squires stand in a single line along the central aisle, backs straight, hands clasped behind them. Silence reigns except for the quiet shuffle of armor and the occasional muttered remark from the circle of knights gathered nearby. Each of them, powerful and poised, surveys the line like hawks—deciding who among the many might be worth their time, effort, or name.

They talk, joke, point. Some are already choosing, marking their picks with a tilt of the chin or a passing comment.

And among them stands Sir Vauren Drelhart.

He does not speak. He does not smile with his teeth or jab elbows like the others. He watches quietly, arms folded across his gilded chestplate, his greatsword resting against his back. His smile is soft. Constant. Unreadable. It’s not an expression of amusement or challenge—but something deeper. Something settled.