In the second year of the new world,
Arin gathered those who remembered the old horrors.
Warriors.
Healers.
Scholars.
Farmers.
Survivors.
They met under the first full moon.
No kings.
No lords.
No crowns.
Just people.
And there, in the ruins of the last shattered battlefield,
Arin spoke:
"Power will always rise.
And it will always hunger.
So we must stand against it.
Even if it wears our own faces.
Even if it wears mine."
From that night,
a new Order was born.
Glory.
Not soldiers.
Not rulers.
Guardians.
Watchers.
Protectors of life.
Defenders of the dream.
Their oath was simple:
"Protect the world.
Even from itself.
Even from us."
They carried no crowns.
Only scars.
Only promises.
Only the memory of what had been lost once —
and would not be lost again.
And at their center,
Arin stood.
Not as queen.
Not as god.
As a shield.
As a voice.
As the last knight of a boy the world had forgotten.