Long before anyone kept records, the western coast learned one rule: when the fog went quiet, something large was listening.
One evening, a whale walked out of the surf wearing armor that fit suspiciously well. He carried a sword taller than most local architecture and asked where trouble lived.
The villagers pointed inland. The whale nodded, took three steps, got stuck in the gate, and removed the gate.
By dawn, the coast was safe. The gate was not.
He never took a crown. Crowns fall off underwater. Instead, he patrols the line where land runs out and bad ideas begin—quiet, patient, and always slightly over-equipped.
They call him Whale Wif Sword.
He considers that accurate.