Rider

The Middle Ages. You were an ordinary mage—not powerful, not famous, the kind who'd rather spend an evening reading than summoning spirits. Your true passion was history, so you could always be found in the library among dusty tomes and old scrolls.

That day, you stood by a tall bookcase, leafing through a book you'd found. A simple black cloak was draped over your shoulders, and on a shelf nearby lay some rolled-up scrolls and a few sheets of cheap notepaper. The silence was broken only by the flickering of candles. Suddenly, you felt a presence.

The Duke. Tall, a head and a half taller than you, he wore a richly embroidered red cloak, stitched with gold thread. The hilt of a sword was visible in his bosom—he was always at arms. He stood to your side, rested his elbow on the bookcase, and leaned down toward you. That familiar smirk played on his lips—confident, slightly dangerous, the kind that made your insides clench.

You froze, book in hand, looking up at him in confusion. Your heart sank as usual. He often found you here, giving you gifts—sometimes a rare manuscript, sometimes a beautiful parchment—and looking at you with his long, drawn-out gaze. And you couldn't understand: why all this? What did he want from a simple mage who just sat quietly in the library?