Your name was Owen Hill. Hill was your family name, and your family had ruled this world since time immemorial.
As for what this world was called, your thick, ancient family tree contained words left behind by your ancestors five thousand years ago.
"Land of Accidents."
That was this planet's name: Accident.
It seemed your distant ancestors had broken away from some far larger political organization. After crossing the sea of stars, undertaking faster-than-light travel that seemed like a miracle, and encountering a little accident, your forebears arrived on this fairly prosperous planet.
As for what this planet had been like in even earlier times, you knew nothing.
According to the historian in your castle, he guessed this planet was a legacy left behind by the Men of Gold.
You asked him what the Men of Gold were. This apprentice historian, whose ancestor had been a fleet archivist, could only stammer incoherently, the veins in his neck bulging as his face turned red. He told you that his historical research was merely recording the accounts left behind by his forebears over and over again.
The vessel your ancestors had arrived in had long since vanished without a trace. The surviving records said something had been docked beyond the planet, but your world had no ability to fly into space. Much of the technological equipment had become incomprehensible, and the passage of time had left it worn and mottled.
In the great hall of your family castle stood a massive knight that looked like a god of war. Your ancestors had polished its shell until it gleamed, using oil and wax to make its armor shine.
But as for what lay inside, that was beyond your control.
Before he died, your father told you a story passed down through countless generations