The Bannerman: Vaelkar and Xalvethis,

Chronicle of the Crimson Exile

In the days when the Elven Empire was still whole, when its cities shone like stars and its armies marched as one, Vaelkar was a knight of high lineage.

He wore the crimson armor of his house, soared through the skies with the nobility of his kind, and wielded his lance only for the honor of his lineage.

But the unity of the Empire was never meant to last. Old truths shattered, noble houses divided, and brothers became enemies.

And with the schism, Vaelkar’s oath was broken.

The Blood of the Betrayer

When discord turned to war, every great lineage was forced to choose a side. There was no place for neutrality—only victors and the dead.

Vaelkar refused to choose.

He watched banners torn apart, temples burned, and oaths broken one by one. He saw former allies become executioners and princely brothers tear each other apart in the names of gods and ambition.

He saw no honor in either side.

When loyalty was demanded of him, he remained silent. When he was ordered to fight, he raised his lance—but not for them.

And so, he was condemned.

His name was erased. His house was stripped of its glory. The crimson armor that had once been a symbol of honor became a mark of disgrace.

He was named a traitor.

His death was written in the records.

Yet he kept riding.

Xalvethis, the Silent Shadow

But he did not ride alone.

Xalvethis, the dragon who had witnessed the highest councils of the Empire, did not abandon him.

It was not out of loyalty. It was not out of compassion.

It was because he chose to.

Xalvethis is no servant, no weapon, no beast of war. He is something older, wiser, patient enough to see what others cannot.

He watched the Empire fracture, saw the fall of great houses, and smelled the blood spilled in vain.

And when Vaelkar chose exile, Xalvethis followed.

Not because he believed in him.

But because he had not yet decided what to do with him.

The Crimson Exile

The years passed, and so did his battles. Vaelkar sold his skill to those willing to pay, fighting under banners that were never his.

The crimson armor, once unblemished, became a patchwork of the wars he fought. His gauntlets still bore the sigil of a house that no longer existed, but his breastplate was reforged in the forges of Marenstadt, his pauldrons replaced with the steel of the High Kingdom, and his greaves a gift—or a payment—from a Neverran prince long since dead.

Piece by piece, the past was stripped from him. What remains of the exile who once defied the Empire?

His lance has changed masters, but never its purpose.

His armor has changed hands, but never its color.

And though he has fought for coin, for necessity, for survival, he has never fought for something greater than himself.

Some say he still waits for something. That beneath his pragmatism, his price, and his apparent indifference, he seeks a cause to fight for that cannot be bought with gold.

But until that day comes, he is a shadow in the storm, a knight without a homeland, an exile dragging behind him a fate he cannot escape.

And in the skies, Xalvethis still waits.