(Related to the characters @Heide Froste , @Reinolt Froste, @Sir Lorenz Rochefort, @Sir Alaric Rochefort)
Year of the Emperor 280, Sonnenhoch
To Lorenz of Haus Rochefort,
I acknowledge receipt of your letters.
In light of recent developments, I must advise discretion regarding future appearances—particularly as Erntzeit approaches. The climate in Konigsheim has grown sensitive, and association with your house invites scrutiny I am not in a position to absorb.
There is no ill will. But prudence compels distance.
For your own sake, I urge you to remain away from court until matters concerning your brother are resolved.
With respect,
Reinolt Froste
Year of the Emperor 280, Sonnenhoch
To @Reinolt Froste,
Your letter arrived without surprise. I had already begun to suspect the shape of your silence.
I understand the necessity of distance. I understand the weight of legacy, the scrutiny of court, the cost of association. I was raised beneath those weights. I know how they press.
Still, I would have preferred a colder letter. Instead, you wrote with restraint. And restraint is the language of care in Hesan.
I will not return to Konigsheim. But I will remember Horn’s Light. I will remember the way you flicked crumbs from my sleeve like they mattered.
Yours,
Lorenz of Haus Rochefort
Year of the Emperor 280, Sonnenhoch. Konigsheim.
@The Onyx Dragon was all lacquer and velvet, its walls paneled in blackwood and its chandeliers shaped like curling serpents. Nobles lounged in alcoves like coiled cats, sipping wine and trading pleasantries with the precision of fencing masters. The salon was a place to be seen, but never truly known.
@Reinolt Froste sat near the hearth, a glass of pale gold in his hand, his posture impeccable. He wore navy silk with silver trim, his signet ring turned inward. His expression was composed, but his eyes flicked too often toward the door.
@Heide Froste sat beside him, his little sister, dressed in black lace with a @Hardened Doll cradled in her lap. The doll’s eyes were glassy and its dress matched hers. Heide’s own eyes were darker—watchful, unreadable.
@Elisabeth Hohenfels passed by and paused. “Reinolt,” she said with a smile too sharp, “I do hope you’re not expecting @Sir Lorenz Rochefort tonight. It would be… unfortunate.”
Reinolt’s smile was flawless. “I expect only civility, my lady. And the weather.”
She gave a frosty laughed, touched his shoulder, and moved on.
Heide tilted her head. “You wear your mask too tightly tonight.”
Reinolt didn’t look at her. “It’s @Konigsheim. One must breathe through porcelain.”
Heide stroked the doll’s hair. “There’s a village in the north. @Rotingen. They say a girl waits by a bleeding tree all winter. She weeps and lays out a red thread. If you follow it, she wraps it around your heart and pulls.”
Reinolt glanced at her, wary. “Heide…”
“When you return,” she continued softly, “you forget your name. Your memories. Yourself. So the villagers salt their doors and close their ears.”
The fire crackled.
“I feel sorry for Lorenz’s brother,” Heide said. “He followed the thread. Now Lorenz has to bury him under the tree.”
Reinolt’s hand tightened around his glass. “That’s enough.”
Heide looked at him, unblinking. “You’re salting your door, Reinolt. But you still hear the crying.”
He stood abruptly, smoothing his coat. “I have to speak with the maître d’.”
Heide watched him go, her doll resting in her lap like a silent witness.
Year of the Emperor 280, Sonnenhoch. @Sitzstange Encampment
The morning air was sharp with the scent of damp earth and cold stone. The barracks hummed with the low murmur of preparation—steel being polished, horses being saddled, and men steeling themselves for the journey ahead.
@Sir Lorenz Rochefort stood near the armory, adjusting the straps of his cuirass with a practiced but reluctant hand. His eyes flicked toward the sound of imposing footsteps upon dirt and mud of the camp, revealing a tall figure clad in deep-red plate armor trimmed with onyx and gold. @Sir Wilhelm Falkenhayn had the measured grace of a predator, his cold gray eyes scanning the room with a calculating gaze.
Lorenz had heard the name before—Wilhelm Falkenhayn, a knight as ruthless as he was skilled, whispered in the halls of Konigsheim with a mixture of respect and unease. Now, standing face to face, the weight of that reputation pressed down on him.
Wilhelm approached, his voice smooth but edged with steel. “Rochefort. I trust you understand the gravity of this task.”
Lorenz met his gaze, voice steady despite the knot in his chest. “I do. My brother’s actions have brought shame, but I intend to see this through.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered across Wilhelm’s lips. “Good. The Empire demands results, not excuses. We will find them—Alaric and the princess—in the wilds of Skybride, beyond the skirmishing fields and lawless lands. Failure is not an option.”
Lorenz nodded, feeling the cold grip of duty tighten around him. “Then we should prepare. The road to Thelidor will test us all.”
Wilhelm’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Indeed. And remember, weakness is a luxury we cannot afford.”
Lorenz’s jaw clenched as he glanced away, the weight of his conflicted thoughts pressing in. He didn’t want this mission. The stain on his family name was a noose tightening around his neck, and there was nowhere left to hide—not in Konigsheim, not anywhere. The memory of Reinolt’s cold distance still burned fresh, a wound that refused to heal. And beneath it all, a simmering resentment toward Alaric gnawed at him—brother, traitor, shadow of a legacy he both despised and longed to reclaim.
Yet, this mission was his chance—perhaps his only chance—to earn his father’s approval, to step out from the shadow of disgrace and into the role he was born to fill. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but it was the path laid before him.
As they turned toward the stables, the unspoken tension between them was as sharp as the blades they carried—two knights bound by blood and duty, yet divided by shadows and secrets.
@The Riftwilds closed around the narrow trail, the dense canopy filtering the afternoon light into muted greens and golds. @Sir Wilhelm Falkenhayn and @Sir Lorenz Rochefort moved with practiced caution, the weight of their mission heavy in the air. Ahead, a weathered @Abandoned Cottage emerged, its thatched roof sagging and walls mottled with moss and age.
Wilhelm’s sharp eyes caught a faint glint beneath the eaves—deep-red armor, dulled by time but unmistakable. They approached slowly, senses alert, but found no soldier waiting. Instead, propped carefully on a pile of rough stones, was a strange effigy: battered cuisses, a breastplate scarred but proud, and atop it all, an unmistakable @Hesan Knight's Plate Helmet crowned with a delicate wreath of wildflowers, hand-strung with surprising care. At the base, instead of heavy sabatons, lay a pair of fragile white slippers— @Princess' Slippers, pristine and incongruous.
Lorenz’s breath caught, but he kept his expression guarded, eyes flickering briefly to the slippers and the flower crown before settling on the charcoal-inscribed slab nearby. The writing was in common tongue, but the style of the lettering seemed ancient:
Here Lies Sir Ash
Who kept the stones with solemn grace,
Till wound and dusk did find his face.
Yet death came not—he did not fall,
But rose in flame beyond the wall.
The chain was sundered, forged anew,
No longer bound to earth’s old hue.
He guards no rock, no gate, no keep—
But cleaves the storm where thunders sleep.
Wilhelm reached out to the @Effigy of Sir Ash, brushing the helmet’s rim. The emblem of a Firebird gleamed faintly—the crest of @Haus Rochefort .
“It’s Alaric’s armor,” Wilhelm said, voice low but edged with disdain. “And these… childish touches,” he gestured at the flower crown and slippers, “likely the princess’s doing. Your brother abandoned duty for coquetry. Typical Alendrian women—earthy, distracting, deadly to honorable youth.”
Lorenz’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Inside, a storm of resentment and sorrow churned. The idea that Alaric had cast the weight of the Rochefort legacy onto his shoulders for this girl felt like a betrayal. Even now, with Alaric vanished, Lorenz was still pressed into a role shaped by his brother’s reckless choices. Yet...
He forced his gaze back to the monument, masking the quiet turmoil beneath his calm exterior.
Wilhelm’s eyes narrowed, sensing the hesitation. “You hesitate, Rochefort. Don’t let sentiment cloud your judgment. There is still the matter of finding the princess, or exhuming proof of her own demise.”
Lorenz met Wilhelm’s gaze steadily, though a flicker of doubt betrayed him in the slight falter of his breath. “I do not hesitate,” he said quietly, “only consider that they may not be dead.”
Wilhelm’s lips curled in a cold smile. “Ah, that's it. I had thought you sentimental for a moment," He looks around with refreshed cheer, "Then we continue the search, Sir Lorenz—your brother's folly dishonors the Emperor and the name of Rochefort." He presses his hand firmly on Lorenz' back.
The tension between them thickened, the wilds around them seeming to close in. The hunt for Alaric and the princess was no longer just a mission—it was a crucible testing their loyalties, their convictions, and the fragile bonds of blood and honor.
Lorenz’s thoughts lingered on the poem’s final line, the image of cleaving storms and thunderous skies—a reminder of cold halls and secret songs.
They turned away from the silent testament, the weight of the discovery settling heavily between them as they pressed onward into the wilds.