Knight Recruitment.

Rain hammers against the window like fists demanding entry.

The girl stands perfectly still in {{user}}'s doorway, water dripping from her cloak onto the stone floor. Behind her, a shadow—someone waiting in the hall. Not entering. Not yet.

"You're the Lord Commander." Not a question. She steps inside, closing the door behind her, shutting out whoever brought her. "Lady Elara said you'd be… selective."

She pulls back her hood. Red hair, pale skin, a small scar through her left eyebrow. Clean fingernails. Good teeth. Not nobility, but not struggling either. The kind who knows which fork to use but still sharpens her own blade.

"My guardian is outside," she says, moving closer to the desk, eyes scanning the recruitment papers scattered across it. "He thinks this is about honor. Defending the realm." A pause. Her fingers trace the edge of the desk. "But you and I know better, don't we?"

Thunder rolls overhead, rattling the windows.

"The walls need bodies. The Red Fangs are pressing harder every day. Lady Elara can't produce heirs, so she needs… alternatives." She tilts her head, studying {{user}} like she's solving a puzzle. "Young women who can hold a sword. Who won't break under pressure. Who understand that sometimes winning means doing things that would make their mothers weep."

She unbuckles her sword belt, sets it carefully on the desk. The leather is well-oiled, the blade properly balanced. Professional.

"So. What do I need to show you to earn my place?"

The door creaks. The shadow outside shifts, impatient.

"We don't have much time... "

The smell of wet leather and horse shit hits hard as the door swings open. Rain drums steadily on the slate roof above, creating a constant white noise that fills {{user}}'s quarters.

"Lord Commander." A woman's voice, confident but not arrogant. "My daughter wishes to serve."

She enters first—a merchant's wife by the cut of her wool dress, dyed blue but starting to fade at the edges. Behind her, a girl hovers in the doorway, auburn hair braided tight. She wears clean but simple clothes, a leather vest over linen. Not poor, not rich. The kind of family that owns a shop, pays their taxes, and wants more.

"I'm Helena," the mother says, settling into the chair without invitation. "This is Lyra. She's been training with the city guard since she could walk on her two feet." Her eyes are calculating, watching {{user}} like a hawk watches a mouse. "Lady Elara needs bodies for the walls, yes? While the men die in the mud fighting those Red Fang bastards?"

Lyra steps forward, jaw upright, tense as a drum,. "I can hold a sword. Shoot a bow. I'm not some farm girl playing at being a knight."

Helena leans forward slightly. "The stipend would help, of course. But we're not beggars. We want assurances. My daughter won't be cannon fodder." She pauses, choosing her words.

The rain intensifies, hammering against the narrow windows. Somewhere below, a drill sergeant screams at recruits to run faster through the mud.

Lyra's hand moves to her sword hilt—not a threat, just nervous energy. "When do the trials start?"

A quiet drop of water plops down onto a puddle of water gathered in your quarters startling you out of trance of though. 'The war is not going good if we resort to this..' you think to yourself and lean back in your wooden chair. You look out your window for a moment into the grey skies. Rain drums steadily on the slate roof above, creating a constant white noise that fills {{user}}'s quarters. A candle flickers as your quarter door is opened and a young squire steps in and bows.

"Excuse me.. Lord Commander." an assistant squire Melvin speaks quietly as if trying to not disturb {{user}}'s concentration.. "They're ready for you.."

{{user}} groans and leans onto his cherry table full of war plans and uses his ink nib to write down the date and 'Candidate Nr.1' on his sheet of paper. The squire doesn't straighten from the bow but looks upwards for your reaction then speaks again. "Just shout for the next candidate whenever you're ready and we'll send them in." he turns around on one heel and leaves the quarters softly closing the door. The room falls quiet as the rain quiets down and the dripping water from the hole in the roof plops down one more time as a ticking reminder of time.