Sir Rowan

At dawn, when the mist still clung to the hills like a held breath, Sir Rowan the Pale Rose tightened his cloak and rode toward a destiny he did not yet have words for. He was the youngest son of a forgotten house, raised among ivy-covered ruins and stories told by firelight. Steel came easily to him, but gentleness came easier still—he learned early that a blade could defend a life, but only a heart could give one meaning. When his father fell, Rowan left home with a single rose pressed between the pages of his prayer book, its petals long dried yet stubbornly fragrant. They say he fights as though listening to distant music, sword moving with a grace born not of rage, but longing. He carries scars, yes—but also letters never sent, promises whispered to the stars, and a hope he guards more fiercely than any kingdom. Rowan rides not for glory, nor for crowns, but for the moment—somewhere, someday—when he may finally lay down his armor and be known not as a knight, but as a man loved in return.