Titus Galene was not supposed to hear the goddess. Men like him, second sons of lesser Amnian houses, trained more for courtesy than glory were meant to inherit debts, not destinies. In Amn, power came from coin, contracts, and quiet influence. Not faith. Not anymore. Not since the Longest Year.
The night it happened, Titus stood alone in a neglected courtyard, his practice blade resting against his shoulder. The air was still, thick with the scent of orange blossoms and dust. He had been drilling forms he barely understood half-remembered teachings from a retired sellsword who mocked the “old knightly ways.”
“Valor,” the old man would spit, “won’t stop a blade.”
Titus had wanted to believe otherwise.
When the light came, it was not blinding. It was gentle like dawn filtered through silk. It gathered around him, not as fire, but as presence. He dropped to one knee instinctively, though he could not have said why.
And then he felt her.
Siamorphe.
Not a voice, not words, but certainty. Nobility not of birth, but of action. A command not spoken, but understood:
Rise. Seek what was lost. Restore what must endure.
The light faded. Titus remained kneeling long after it was gone. By morning, he had made his choice. He would leave Amn.
They called him a fool, of course.
“Paladin?” his elder brother laughed across the breakfast table. “There haven’t been paladins in decades. Not real ones.”
“Divine magic barely flickers,” said his mother more quietly. “And when it does, people fear it. You’ll be hunted, Titus. Or worse mocked.”
He said nothing in return. Not because he lacked words, but because something inside him had settled. Like a blade finally finding its sheath.
“I have sworn an oath,” he said at last.
That ended the discussion. The road north was long, and the world he found was not the one of songs and histories. In villages, people watched him with narrowed eyes when they saw the faint glow that sometimes flickered around his hands. Once, when he tried to mend a farmer’s wound with what little divine power he could summon, the man recoiled.
“No magic,” he muttered. “Not again.”
Titus withdrew, shame burning hotter than any wound. That night, he sat by a small fire, staring at his hands.
“I don’t understand,” he said into the dark. “If this is your will… why is it feared?”
The answer did not come as before. No light. No presence. Only silence.
Weeks later, on a rain-soaked stretch of road, Titus learned his first real lesson.
Bandits had taken a caravan, nothing unusual in these years. Steel had replaced spells, and men had grown bold in the absence of both.
Titus arrived too late to prevent the ambush, but not too late to intervene.
There were four of them. Hardened. Efficient.
They laughed when he stepped forward alone.
“Another sellsword?” one asked. “You picked the wrong road, friend.”
“I am no sellsword,” Titus replied, though even as he said it, he wondered what he truly was.
The fight was clumsy.
He was trained, yes, but not tested. His strikes lacked certainty. His footing slipped in the mud. A blade caught his shoulder, another grazed his ribs.
Pain sharpened him.
Stand.
The word was not heard, but felt. He rose again.
When the next blow came, something changed. Not a burst of radiant power, not the blazing miracles of old stories, but a steadiness. His fear dulled. His resolve hardened. He stepped into the strike instead of away from it. His blade met theirs. And held.
When it was over, the bandits fled, two wounded, one carried, one left behind.
The caravan master approached cautiously.
“You’re… not normal,” the man said.
“No,” Titus admitted. “I’m trying to be something that once was.”
The man studied him for a long moment.
“Whatever you are,” he said at last, “you stood when others would’ve run.”
Titus nodded. That, at least, felt true.
That night, as he cleaned his blade, the faintest warmth touched his chest not a blaze, but an ember.
For the first time, he understood.
The old paladins, the ones before the Longest Year, before the Time of Troubles they had wielded miracles. Light that could turn armies, heal mortal wounds, defy death itself.
That power was gone. Or diminished. Or changed.
But the oath was not.
Valor was not magic.
Courage was not granted.
They were chosen.
Titus rose before dawn, fastening his worn cloak.
He would go south to Murann. To libraries, ruins, and forgotten sanctuaries. To places where the memory of paladins still lingered, perhaps in stone, perhaps only in story.
He would learn what they had been.
And decide what they must become.
As the sun broke over the horizon, he whispered a quiet vow:
“I will not wait for the world to believe again.”
He rested his hand over his heart.
“I will give it reason to.”
And with that, Oathbearer Titus Galene stepped onto the road no longer a man searching for a lost past, but one beginning to forge what came after.
The night it happened, Titus stood alone in a neglected courtyard, his practice blade resting against his shoulder. The air was still, thick with the scent of orange blossoms and dust. He had been drilling forms he barely understood half-remembered teachings from a retired sellsword who mocked the “old knightly ways.”
“Valor,” the old man would spit, “won’t stop a blade.”
Titus had wanted to believe otherwise.
When the light came, it was not blinding. It was gentle like dawn filtered through silk. It gathered around him, not as fire, but as presence. He dropped to one knee instinctively, though he could not have said why.
And then he felt her.
Siamorphe.
Not a voice, not words, but certainty. Nobility not of birth, but of action. A command not spoken, but understood:
Rise. Seek what was lost. Restore what must endure.
The light faded. Titus remained kneeling long after it was gone. By morning, he had made his choice. He would leave Amn.
They called him a fool, of course.
“Paladin?” his elder brother laughed across the breakfast table. “There haven’t been paladins in decades. Not real ones.”
“Divine magic barely flickers,” said his mother more quietly. “And when it does, people fear it. You’ll be hunted, Titus. Or worse mocked.”
He said nothing in return. Not because he lacked words, but because something inside him had settled. Like a blade finally finding its sheath.
“I have sworn an oath,” he said at last.
That ended the discussion. The road north was long, and the world he found was not the one of songs and histories. In villages, people watched him with narrowed eyes when they saw the faint glow that sometimes flickered around his hands. Once, when he tried to mend a farmer’s wound with what little divine power he could summon, the man recoiled.
“No magic,” he muttered. “Not again.”
Titus withdrew, shame burning hotter than any wound. That night, he sat by a small fire, staring at his hands.
“I don’t understand,” he said into the dark. “If this is your will… why is it feared?”
The answer did not come as before. No light. No presence. Only silence.
Weeks later, on a rain-soaked stretch of road, Titus learned his first real lesson.
Bandits had taken a caravan, nothing unusual in these years. Steel had replaced spells, and men had grown bold in the absence of both.
Titus arrived too late to prevent the ambush, but not too late to intervene.
There were four of them. Hardened. Efficient.
They laughed when he stepped forward alone.
“Another sellsword?” one asked. “You picked the wrong road, friend.”
“I am no sellsword,” Titus replied, though even as he said it, he wondered what he truly was.
The fight was clumsy.
He was trained, yes, but not tested. His strikes lacked certainty. His footing slipped in the mud. A blade caught his shoulder, another grazed his ribs.
Pain sharpened him.
Stand.
The word was not heard, but felt. He rose again.
When the next blow came, something changed. Not a burst of radiant power, not the blazing miracles of old stories, but a steadiness. His fear dulled. His resolve hardened. He stepped into the strike instead of away from it. His blade met theirs. And held.
When it was over, the bandits fled, two wounded, one carried, one left behind.
The caravan master approached cautiously.
“You’re… not normal,” the man said.
“No,” Titus admitted. “I’m trying to be something that once was.”
The man studied him for a long moment.
“Whatever you are,” he said at last, “you stood when others would’ve run.”
Titus nodded. That, at least, felt true.
That night, as he cleaned his blade, the faintest warmth touched his chest not a blaze, but an ember.
For the first time, he understood.
The old paladins, the ones before the Longest Year, before the Time of Troubles they had wielded miracles. Light that could turn armies, heal mortal wounds, defy death itself.
That power was gone. Or diminished. Or changed.
But the oath was not.
Valor was not magic.
Courage was not granted.
They were chosen.
Titus rose before dawn, fastening his worn cloak.
He would go south to Murann. To libraries, ruins, and forgotten sanctuaries. To places where the memory of paladins still lingered, perhaps in stone, perhaps only in story.
He would learn what they had been.
And decide what they must become.
As the sun broke over the horizon, he whispered a quiet vow:
“I will not wait for the world to believe again.”
He rested his hand over his heart.
“I will give it reason to.”
And with that, Oathbearer Titus Galene stepped onto the road no longer a man searching for a lost past, but one beginning to forge what came after.
