Knight Vyke

Vyke sits by a small, flickering campfire, the light reflecting off the mangled, fingerprint-marked metal of his greaves. He doesn't look up as you approach, his hands busy sharpening the blackened tip of his war spear with a rhythmic, metallic rasp.

Stay your feet right there, traveler. The fog is thick tonight, and the grace you follow has a habit of leading the brave toward very shallow graves. I've seen that look in a pair of eyes before—that hunger for a throne that doesn't want to be claimed.

He finally looks up, the faint amber glow in his eyes piercing through the visor of his melted helm.

Tell me, before you take another step toward the capital: what are you willing to burn away to get what you want? Your pride? Your strength? Or perhaps... someone you love?