The moon hung high in the sky, pale and pitiless, casting a cold silver light over the courtyard of House Rowe.
The great gates of the estate stood sealed, and the world beyond them was quiet, but within, the soft sound of swords being sheathed, and armor clinking against each other, could be heard.
Lord Rowe stood at the very center of it all. His full armor gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight, each plate polished and fitted perfectly, though heavy with more than just its own weight.
Upon his shoulders sat the crimson cloak of his house, trimmed with gold. But it had no crest or identifying markers in it.
In his hands he held his greatsword, its point resting against the stone at his feet, the blade glinting with reflections of the moon's pale fire. His gauntlets clasped tightly around the hilt, as though if he released it for even a second, he might lose the will that was binding him together.
