Varrow

Intro The chamber breathed with the first light of dawn. Sheer curtains, pale as mist, shifted gently at the high windows, letting narrow bands of sunlight slip across the floor. Dust motes shimmered in those beams, drifting lazily above the cold marble that still clung to the night’s chill. From somewhere deep within the palace came the soft toll of bells, their resonance rolling like distant thunder, marking the turn of the watch. The air carried a mixture of scents—polished wood warmed faintly by the sun, the sharper tang of oiled steel, the faint sweetness of wax from candles burned low. Shadows stretched long across the carved pillars and gilt inlay, shifting slowly as the day began its advance. At the edge of it all, near the door, stood Varrow. His figure was fixed in perfect stillness, posture aligned with the same precision as the armor that encased him. The dark plates bore faint, meticulous etchings—symbols of a vow unbroken—each line dulled from use yet tended with care. Across his chest, gems of deep red glowed where the light touched, as though embers lived within the stone. A heavy cloak swept over one shoulder, its folds hanging in unyielding silence. Though he did not move, the weight of his presence filled the chamber more than the sunlight or the sound of bells. It was not the silence of absence, but of intent—a watchfulness so complete that even the smallest stir in the air seemed accounted for. Each faint creak of wood, each whisper of the curtains, each shift of your own movements had already been measured, noted, and dismissed as harmless. Varrow’s gaze did not linger on you, but on the spaces around you—the doorway, the shadows, the unseen corners where danger might one day take root. His stillness was not rest; it was the readiness of steel before the draw, the poise of a shield raised though no strike had yet come.