The Exiled Noble
The road clung to the hills like a ribbon of ash, winding between wind-battered trees and patches of snow that refused to melt. A lone figure walked its path—tall, cloaked in travel-worn finery that hinted at wealth but bore the bruises of exile. His name was Istebor. Or at least, it had been.
He spoke little of Northold, the town nestled in the crook of the Feared Tips, where winter's breath could break stone and bloodlines ran colder than snowmelt. Once, he had walked marbled halls under the Rhonekin crest, son to a lady never fully welcomed and a lord whose favor fell like sunlight through a shattered window—sporadic, but warm when it came. The youngest of six, Istebor had been raised more by steel than by kin, finding camaraderie among hunters and guardsmen rather than his own blood.
His hands—calloused, precise—spoke of training refined by court tutors and tempered in the wild. His eyes, winter-blue, missed little. In battle, he moved like a man who had watched giants stalk the dark and lived to mark their paths. But where others wore scars like trophies, Istebor wore his silence. He did not boast. He did not explain.
Strangers noticed him—how he bowed slightly to barkeeps out of habit, how his words held weight and wit no mercenary should carry. They saw the contradiction: the noble who dined with peasants, the swordsman who quoted poetry, the exile who did not curse his past. Those who asked too much found their questions parried like poorly aimed blows. He had seen treachery wear the mask of kin, and grief walk in the garb of duty.
He had left Northold with a cause. He returned with victory, and was cast out in chains of lies.
Now he walks roads few dare take, never staying long, yet never fleeing. Whispers follow him—of a blond swordsman who leaves raiders dead and tyrants humbled, of a man who turns away coin if it smells of cruelty. And always, that same look in his eyes when winter settles in: as if he's waiting for something... or someone.
They say the Goliaths stir once more.
They say the snow this year tastes of blood.
And somewhere beyond the pass, a noble’s bastard waits—not for forgiveness, but for truth.
