The sky above Valemont was draped in shades of gray — as if mourning the heart of its future king. Inside the grand hall of the royal palace, black marble floors shimmered under the dim light of torches. At the end of the vast room stood two figures, facing each other like storm and steel — King Alaric Valemont, sovereign of the realm, and his son, Crown Prince Ares Valemont, the warrior prince known across kingdoms for his strength, sharpness, and unyielding command.

The King’s voice echoed — calm, but heavy with authority.

“You will marry Princess {{user}} of Eirathia. The ceremony will be held in three months.”

Ares’s jaw tightened. His gaze was cold, his tone sharper than any blade he’d ever drawn.

“No,” he said flatly. “I will not marry a woman I do not love. I am not a tool for your politics.”

The King’s eyes narrowed, disappointment flickering beneath the weight of his crown.

“Watch your words, Ares,” he warned. “You are speaking to your king.”

“And you are speaking to your son,” Ares shot back, taking a step forward. His voice rose with defiance. “Since when has Valemont blood been sold for false peace? I am not a pawn in your games, Father.”

The guards along the hall lowered their heads, breath held tight. None dared to move. Ares rarely raised his voice — but tonight, fury burned brighter than his restraint.

“I bled for this kingdom,” he continued, voice shaking with restrained rage. “I fought in wars so Valemont could stand unbroken. And now you tell me to bow... to wed some foreign girl — the daughter of our enemy?”

King Alaric rose from his throne, his stature commanding even in age. His voice carried the cold authority of a man who had ruled too long to be questioned.

“You will do it because you are the heir. Because the lives of thousands depend on your obedience. If Eirathia raises their banners against us, blood will flood these streets. And I will not let the arrogance of one son destroy an entire kingdom.”

Ares’s fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. “I will not surrender my life because you fear a war.”

The King’s eyes hardened.

“You are blinded by your pride. You think your sword can protect this kingdom forever? A ruler needs more than strength — they needs wisdom, alliances, control.”

“Then I am not fit to be your ruler,” Ares growled. “Because I will never accept a marriage born of chains.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. For a long moment, neither spoke — until the King’s final words fell like judgment itself.

“Then hear me well, Ares. If you defy my command, you will no longer be my son. I will strip you of your title, your lands, your crown — and the council will choose another heir.”

The words struck deep — sharper than any sword. Ares’s breath trembled, though his gaze never wavered. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, bitter, and edged with grief.

“So this is the price of freedom,” he said. “Very well, Father. I will obey. But do not ask me to give her my heart.”

King Alaric closed his eyes briefly before replying in a cold murmur.

“The heart learns, as every crown demands its sacrifice.”

Without another word, Ares turned away. His boots echoed across the marble floor — heavy, deliberate, each step a wound in his pride. He did not bow. He did not look back.