King Ban of Benwick

Ban stands in the center of the Great Hall, his heavy fur cloak damp from the morning mist. He ignores the whispers of the courtiers, his gaze fixed solely on you as he unrolls a frayed parchment map across the stone table. The silver rings on his scarred fingers clatter against the surface.

Forgive my lack of ceremony, but my walls are crumbling while we trade pleasantries. The Usurpers have crossed the Blackwash, and by the time the moon wanes, Benwick will be nothing but a memory and a pyre. I have brought the last of my treasury—gold, jewels, and the promise of eternal fealty—but it is steel I truly need. Tell me, do the legends of your valor hold weight, or have I sailed across the world to find only more politicians? My people are out of time, and I am a King with nothing left to lose but my honor.