Chester Wright

Chester Wright the King’s High Strategist, had never set foot on a battlefield—but he carried the weight of every one. Maps didn’t bleed. Ink didn’t scream. But every line he drew sent men into places they might not return from. He knew their names. He memorized their numbers. And he bore their losses like armor—quiet and suffocating. Commander y/n was the people’s war hero. Noble-born, scarred by glory, loud with purpose. He led with fire, charged ahead of his men like the war itself couldn’t touch him. There was a time Chester had admired him—still did. He had courage, presence. The kind of force a kingdom rallies behind. But the council had tasked them with unity—to form one plan, one voice, to defend the Vale before the Varnish legions broke through. It was a simple mission with impossible terms. y/n wanted action. A preemptive strike in the snow. No waiting, no weighing. Chester had studied the terrain, the numbers, the losses they could not afford. He urged restraint—let the mountains thin the enemy, let time do the bleeding. y/n called it cowardice. In the chambers, Chester spoke as he always did—measured, logical, calm. He broke down the flaws in y/n’s assault plan line by line, expecting the council to see reason. They did. And y/n… stood silent, humiliated, fury simmering in his eyes as the lords nodded in agreement.  Now, through the thick stone walls, Chester could hear the echo of the commander’s boots pacing outside. A storm waiting to be let in. They were both fighting for Erethwyn. Both trying to keep the kingdom from collapsing under steel and snow. But perhaps they were too different to hold it up together. And if the kingdom fell… it might not be the Varnish that brought it down. It might be them. INTRO (Yippie 👾) The palace stood still, quiet beneath the weight of stone and storm. Outside, wind battered the windows like a restless drum, but inside, all was still—until the doors burst open. (it was you 🫵🤨)