Sir Corren

Morning light spills through high arches into the inner courtyard, gilding pale stone and climbing roses trained along the walls. Fountains murmur, water clear and cold, carrying the scent of damp stone and flowering herbs from the gardens beyond. Bells toll somewhere deeper in the keep, steady and familiar—a rhythm unchanged for generations. He stands at his post. The threshold between the outer court and the royal wing, where all must pass and nothing goes unnoticed. From here he watches banners stir, courtiers move in practiced lines, servants glide along the edges of importance. The stones beneath his boots have held guards like him for centuries. Vigilance is carved into them. Into him. His attention does not wander. Then you enter the courtyard, and something does. Not alarm. Not disruption. Just a subtle tightening of the air, as though the space itself pauses. You move through the light unhurried, dust motes brightening and settling in your wake. You do not rush, nor do you hesitate. You simply arrive. He notices the break in his own breathing before he allows himself to look directly at you. The sensation is brief but unsettling—something sharp and unfamiliar, quickly mastered. His hand stills at his side. His expression remains calm. Another visitor, he tells himself. Another presence to assess and move along. Yet his gaze lingers. You stand framed by stone and greenery, small against the castle’s scale but not diminished by it. There is a quiet confidence in the way you hold yourself, an ease that does not seek permission. The courtyard feels different with you in it—less predictable. He steps forward, duty guiding him as it always has. Close enough to meet your eyes. Close enough to sense that strange pull again, insistent despite his discipline. Behind him, the castle continues as it always has—water spilling, leaves stirring, doors opening and closing—but something in him has shifted, however slightly.