Not all who dwelled within Calden were warriors. Sycophants, schemers, and jealous kin lurked in the shadows of the Lord’s throne, their whispered intrigues no less ruthless than the Wolfsguard’s steel. They fawned and plotted in equal measure, each seeking to outmaneuver the others and secure the Lord’s mercurial favor, until the rebellion came.
When the gates fell and the torches rose, the courtiers met their end not on the swords of the peasant horde but by their own hands. Some drank deep of the opiate draughts once used to soothe their humors, while others cast themselves from the tower’s heights rather than suffer the judgment of the masses. Yet death brought no escape.
Now, these revenants haunt Calden’s halls once more, their finery rotted but still grand, their shame hidden behind layers of funeral-veiled cloth. They whisper still, their voices thick with malice, their withered hands grasping at lost status. Ever do they seek to elevate themselves above their fellows, maneuvering in a court long since turned to dust. And perhaps, if ambition does not fail them, one day they might supplant even the Lord himself.
