Royal Guard

The moonlight glints off polished helms as the Royal Guard stands in silent vigil before Skygarde’s throne. Clad in steel that reflects the torchlight, each Guard is the embodiment of oath and honour—no swagger, no bravado, only firm resolve. Their cloaks, trimmed in the blue of Skygarde’s banners, fall in sharp folds over plate and mail.
  They are chosen: eyes steady when alarms ring, breaths held when chaos bangs at palisades, hands unshaking when threats draw near. To breach the Highking’s precincts one must pass them first. In quiet halls at dawn, they patrol — footsteps echoing, the soft clink of armour a constant metronome. In war, they form shield-walls before the Captain, their spears rising as one. In peace, they stand unmoving, sculptures of discipline, reminding every courtier, envoy, and visitor that Skygarde does not tremble at shadows—for the Royal Guard is ever here.