The Reluctant Heir
Born to a title you didn't ask for. The cloak is heavy, but you're wearing it.
When an innocent is in danger, something ancestral kicks in — a flash of heraldry, the whisper of a motto you were never taught, a surge of power you didn't know you had.
Your Story
You are [name], and in [hometown], people still whisper when you walk past — though you left that life behind the night you turned [age]. Your family name is on old maps. Your family cellar holds swords older than the city that bred them. You have no use for any of it.
You didn't steal anything. You didn't fall in love with the wrong person. You just woke up one morning and knew, with the certainty of a sermon, that a life of footmen and feast days would be the death of whatever you actually were. So you left — before the wedding, before the inheritance, before the rite. You've been paying your own tab ever since, and you bristle at anyone who calls you my lord.
It should have been simple. Drift far enough, work hard enough, forget the titles. But the cloak keeps finding you. A stranger in a market bows. A shopkeeper recognizes your profile from a seal they shouldn't have seen. And lately, when somebody weaker than you is in trouble, your hands know things your hands were never taught.
Your family's old sigil has a shape you never paid much attention to. Count the points. It is not the number you'd expect.
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This one is me →A week before we play, a letter will arrive at your house. Open it alone. Do not compare notes with the others until you reach the Trade Way.