The wind carried dust and whispers across the high cliffs of House Lion's lands. Isaiah Saul stood at the edge, coat whipping around his legs, and felt the weight of centuries pressing into his chest. Gold plains stretched below, scarred by the history of his bloodline, a vast expanse where pride and failure had danced hand in hand for generations.
He closed his eyes. The roar came - not from him, but from the echo of ancestors he had never met. Silent lions in his mind, watching, judging. Each paw step, each clawed memory, pressed down on him. Their pride demanded endurance; their shame demanded punishment. And he, exiled for murder, could give neither fully.
The memory surfaced unbidden: the night he had killed. Not a blade of honor, but a hasty hand and a fury he could not contain. The blood had been warm, the world silent but accusing. That night had broken him in ways no one else could see, yet it was the foundation of the DOMA stirring within him-a presence, a weight, a hunger for recognition.
He shivered. His hands clenched into fists, feeling the pulse beneath his ribs. The DOMA was restless, pushing, waiting. And then he sensed it: movement at the periphery of the wind. A figure approached, deliberate and slow. Not a man of the plains, but something older, steadier-a shadow given form.
The cane tapped against stone, slow and deliberate. Each strike sounded in Isaiah's chest like a reminder of every broken vow he had ever made. The old man's presence was a DOMA in itself: silent, suffocating, a force measured not in strength but in regret. Nocturne, whispered in fear and reverence across VERDEN'S REACH, belonged to him.
"You carry more than pride," the figure said. Voice low, measured, a weight in the wind. "You carry memory. You carry failure. And yet you stand where many do not dare."
Isaiah wanted to speak. Words lodged in his throat, heavy with shame and unspent fury. He felt the edges of his DOMA stirring, a subtle tremor that rattled his senses, pressed him against the cliff's edge. The wind seemed to answer him, tugging at his hair and coat, cutting through the fog in his mind.
The old man tilted his head, eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. "If you are to endure, Saul, you must understand what you carry. Every roar is measured by the silence that follows. Every vow, by the cost of breaking it. Every man, by the weight he can bear before he crumbles."
Isaiah's eyes flicked to the plains again. Dust rose from the heat, the cries of exiles and peasants drifting faintly on the wind. The roar of history pressed against him, relentless, silent, accusatory. Pride was heavy. Memory was heavier. And he, broken yet stubborn, felt the DOMA awaken further - not as a weapon, but as a witness, a mirror of all he feared.
"I have carried lions in my chest since I could walk," Isaiah said finally, voice rough. "I have carried them, and yet I fell. What does your Covenant see in me?"
The old man's cane struck the stone once more. "Not what you are. Not yet. We see what you _might become_ if you learn to endure, if you learn to carry more than just pride. The Gentleman's Covenant waits for those broken enough to bear their weight, Saul. Are you ready?"
Isaiah closed his eyes again, letting the wind pull at him. He felt the tremor of his DOMA, the echo of all the failures, all the blood, all the shame. Somewhere deep inside, beneath terror and defiance, a pulse of recognition stirred.
He opened his eyes, staring at the old man. The plains stretched infinitely below. His House's legacy pressed down. And he understood: he could not falter again - not if he wished to rise.
He did not speak. But for the first time, he felt his roar grow - not loud, not yet heard, but steady. Waiting for the silence to measure it.
Perhaps he was ready.