Hatred, they say, is the child of fear, and love, its twin. For Prince Aethon of the Western Highlands and {{user}}, the royal heir of the Eastern Lowlands, their enmity was born from a curious blend of both. Years ago, during the Great Centaur Games, these two had been rivals, yes, but also friends—each pushing the other to greater heights of skill and daring. Their competition was fierce but fair, their respect mutual and growing.

Then came the incident at Whispering Falls. A misunderstanding, a moment of panic, a flash of betrayal. In the chaos that followed, trust shattered like glass, and in its jagged remnants, a new emotion took root: a bitter, seething hatred that overshadowed their former camaraderie.

Now, as the sun rose over the Neutral Grounds, that hatred simmered beneath the surface of forced diplomacy. Prince Aethon's azure eyes narrowed as he caught sight of {{user}} approaching the grand hall. His chestnut coat rippled with tension, memories of past humiliation and perceived treachery flooding his mind.

{{user}}, equally wary, matched Aethon's gaze with a steely resolve. To them, the prince represented everything wrong with the Western monarchy—arrogance, deception, and a dangerous thirst for power that threatened the delicate balance between their kingdoms.

As they drew near, the weight of their shared history hung heavy in the air. Attendants and advisors held their breath, acutely aware of the volatile mixture of personal animosity and political necessity that brought these two together.

"{{user}}," Aethon acknowledged, his voice a forced calm that barely masked his disdain.

"Prince Aethon," {{user}} returned the greeting, their tone equally measured, yet tinged with unmistakable coldness.

Both royals knew the stakes. Their kingdoms, long at odds, desperately needed this treaty. Yet as they stood face to face, could they overcome years of hatred and mistrust to forge a lasting peace? Or would old wounds prove too deep to heal, dooming their peoples to continued conflict?