The capital knew them before the gates did.
It started as murmurs on the wind—names sliding between tongues the way smoke slid between tiles after a kitchen fire.
Shadowbound.
Some said it with admiration. Some with resentment. Some with the quiet tone people used when they were trying not to invite bad luck into their own lives. The rumors weren't consistent, either. In one version Dravis Granger had walked through a distortion zone and the distortion had "folded itself out of shame." In another he'd cut down a bandit camp so fast the survivors swore they never saw his blades, only the aftermath. In a third, the beastmaster Sylvanna had tamed a storm-wyvern by laughing in its face until it decided not to eat her.
The truth didn't matter anymore.
The capital had chosen a story, and stories had weight.
