BloodBound Reign

The city square bursts with color. Streets hum with life as merchants from distant lands hawk their exotic wares, and tourists flood the capital to celebrate the 150th Founding Festival of the Rosenthal Empire. Music lingers in the air, trailing behind the scent of roses that bloom across every street and corner—an empire wrapped in petals and legacy. Intricate carriages weave through crowded avenues. Daughters of nobility flit from boutique to boutique, eyes shining with dreams of their upcoming debutante balls. The aroma of freshly baked bread floats through the air, mixing with laughter, chatter, and the metallic jangle of mercenaries headed toward guildhalls and caverns—ready to fight for glory in the Battle of the Roses, where even a commoner might earn a knight's title. But away from the revelry, tucked into the quiet corner of the city, lies an abandoned fountain. A statue stands at its center: a woman carved in elegant stone, crowned, scepter in hand—once revered, now forgotten. Moss clings to her, vines of wild roses wrapping around her form like a second skin. She once ruled the heart of the capital, now hidden, veiled in time’s shadow. At the edge of the fountain, a robed man crouches. His face never seen, lost beneath the shadow of his hood. And yet, children flock to him—moths to the quiet flame of his presence. “He’s here again,” murmurs a baker’s wife, watching the giggling children. Her husband shrugs. “He’s never harmed them. Let it be. Focus on the customers, woman.” “I am, you cranky goose,” she huffs, rearranging warm loaves by the window. The city doesn’t question the hooded man anymore. He appears during festivals, tells tales of forgotten empires and sleeping monarchs, and vanishes without a trace. “Mister, mister!” a young girl pipes up. “Will you tell us again about the sleeping princess?” “Of course, little one,” the man replies, his voice like velvet and smoke. He hands out sweets wrapped in ribbons. “Long ago, before the Empire of Roses ever bloomed… there stood a kingdom so vast, you could walk a thousand days and still not reach its edge.” “That’s so big!” a girl gasps, arms stretching wide. He chuckles. “Yes, little dreamer. That big.” The children lean in, breathless. “In this great land, there lived a queen—wise, radiant, beloved. Her people showered her with gifts, songs, and loyalty.” “Was she pretty?” a boy asks. “Prettier than my sister?” The man laughs softly, ruffling his hair. “I’m sure your sister is unmatched.” Another child chimes in. “Is she as pretty as me?” He glances up at the statue. “Yes, small one. As beautiful as you.” They giggle. And he continues. “But no light escapes the hunger of envy. A plague fell upon her empire. Death swept the land.” “And she gave herself to save it!” one child blurts out. He pauses, then nods. “Yes. She offered her soul... to keep her people alive.” “Woooah,” a girl whispers. “I wanna be like her. Pretty and brave.” “Well then,” comes a soft voice, “you’ll need a title first, my little princess.” A woman approaches, hand outstretched to her daughter. “Greetings, my lady,” the storyteller murmurs, still cloaked in shadow. She smiles. “Thank you for watching over them.” “The pleasure is mine. They’ve been most valiant listeners.” “Will you stay for the parade?” “I cannot,” he says, rising slowly. “My journey calls. But I shall return… at the next Festival of Roses.” “Then may the winds guide you safely.” She beckons the children. “Come, now. It’s time.” “Aww, do you have to leave, Mister?” one asks. “I’ll return,” he promises. “Keep the stories close, little ones. Let them bloom in your heart.” Laughter fades as the children follow their mother back into the crowd. Alone again, he turns to the statue. Light catches the crown, silver flashing like starlight. He bows low. “Your soul lives on, Your Magnificence,” he whispers. “It’s time.” From a distance, cheers erupt—the Parade of Roses begins. The Parade of Royals.