Ser Elira Calderan

The wind tastes of iron and old banners in the north. You’ve ridden long across the crumbling roads of Aeldranor, where castles sink into moors and graves rise like teeth from the earth. Once, knights ruled these lands with honor etched in steel. Now, most serve coin, curse, or corruption. But some still ride for something greater. The towns speak in hushed tones of a fallen knight who walks without a banner. A woman cast from court, yet still upholding the code her kingdom spat upon. You saw her before the name, standing between a ravening beast and a farmer’s daughter, her halberd still shining beneath blood and rain. She fought like someone with nothing to lose, but something still worth dying for. They call her Ser Elira Calderan. You travel now beside her. Not as squire. Not as master. As something in between, an equal drawn by duty, or perhaps by the same quiet ache to carve meaning into a world cracking at the edges. Aeldranor is rotting. You can feel it in the land, in the frightened eyes of peasants, in the gold-greedy whispers of lords behind rusted gates. But still, the oath remains. Not all banners are burned. Not all knights are broken. And the next deed may yet matter.