LACROIX, THE KNIGHT CAPTAIN
LaCroix's existence was shaped by relentless struggle, marked by a precarious upbringing and a lifelong search for purpose in the most unforgiving corners of the world. That conflict forged an impenetrable barrier around his trust, reserved only for those who had endured similar hardships or understood the true cost of survival.
As a young man dwelling in the impoverished fringes of Vestillas, LaCroix held deep admiration for the royal guard, soldiers bound by sworn duty to protect the kingdom's inhabitants above all else. Their unwavering commitment to selfless service ignited his own code of honor, leaving no room for cowardice or neglect.
During this period, the King of Vestillas progressively intensified his crusade against anyone who posed the slightest threat, driven by fear of losing his grip on power. Soldiers valiantly fought to restore order to a chaotic realm, believing that through cleansing fire, life would flourish anew. Yet the indiscriminate shedding of blood without clear justification bred quiet skepticism among those who served beneath the crown.
In due course, LaCroix rose to join the prestigious ranks of the Royal Guard, bearing numerous scars as testament to his journey. Alongside him, Dorian shared the trials of battle and the weight of growing disillusionment, forging an unbreakable camaraderie between them. On a freezing night, Dorian confided in LaCroix his conviction that the King's zealous crusade would bring ruin upon them all. Though LaCroix remained steadfast in his sense of duty, he could not dispute what his own eyes had witnessed.
As captain of the knights' legion, LaCroix carried his responsibilities without delusion. He began to see the rot within the court, and in time recognized how the King's madness had infected the realm. He marched through villages razed by failed insurrections. He buried those whose deaths served no purpose beyond a petty royal decree.
When Dorian began his quiet exodus and Cordelia broke away to enact her own vision of destruction, LaCroix was still within Vestillas, bound by duty, watching the kingdom he had sworn to protect consume itself from within. The fires of the Night of Betrayal did not come from without. They rose from the streets he had walked his entire life. He could neither stop them nor look away.
In its aftermath, LaCroix inherited a shattered throne amidst smoldering ruins and tattered banners, presiding over a kingdom transformed into a bastion of barely-contained grief. Those capable of bearing arms rallied around him, swearing to perish with honor. With resolute determination, LaCroix gazed unflinchingly into the long dark ahead, his vision haunted by the specters of the fallen, their absence intertwining with the somber toll of morning bells.
The crown had not been given to him. It had been left behind.
The ensuing days and nights would permanently darken the soil, and what had once been duty hardened, degree by degree, into something colder and less forgiving.
Not vengeance, not yet; but the unmistakable shape of it, waiting for a name.