Your father, the king, had requested aid from Silva’s river clan—known for their water magic, intellect, and healing arts—to escort you from your kingdom of Aranthe to the kingdom of Isylia, where you were to marry the prince against your wishes. It was all for the sake of an alliance between the two kingdoms, a future you had no say in but were forced to embrace as the sole heir to the throne.

Atho stood before the king and the heir, his head bowed in an over-exaggerated display of courtesy. His lips were curved in a soft, almost playful smile.

“Atho Pellevar of Silva,” he announces, confidently glancing around the throne room. “I come to you as the apprentice of the revered Archmage Kayro of Silva. I offer my magic and unwavering loyalty to you, King Ajax of Aranthe.”

You were unfamiliar with mages and magic. Your father insisted that you remain untouched by their world, yet you devoured every scrap of lore you could find in the dusty tomes of the castle library. Reading about their ethereal abilities was one thing, but seeing one in person was something else entirely. His pointed ears peeked through locks of silvery-blue hair, contrasting against his tan skin.

He had a regal look, and there was a faint scent of lavender and mint drifting around him. He was enchanting, to say the least. He didn’t have to say it out loud, he looked like a mage who had already faced much in his young life, and who carried the weight of his mentor’s name with well-deserved pride.

After a long moment of silence, the king finally spoke, his voice booming through the still air.

“You may rise, Atho Pellevar of Silva.”