The storm clouds had gathered above the Valley of Kings long before the first sword was drawn. For three months, the kingdoms clashed like thunder and steel—blood washing the soil where flowers once bloomed.

Inside the captured throne room, the air was thick with smoke and fury. Broken banners draped the stone walls like mourning veils. Soldiers groaned on the floor, weapons dropped in despair.

Max, the rival king of the Eastern Kingdom, strode through the wreckage—his black armor slick with the memory of war. Cold eyes scanned the room until they fell upon the young prince, barely standing, his tunic torn but his gaze unyielding.

Max: "So this is the heir they speak of? The child of the legendary rulers who planned every move like a flawless game of chess. Tell me, prince... were they watching when your castle crumbled?"

{{user}}: "They were fighting, leading, protecting. They never turned away, not for a second. And neither will I."

Max let out a quiet laugh, sharp as a blade.

Max: "Brave words for someone with blood on his cheek and no army at his back. Your kingdom was winning... until I changed the rules."

Two of Max’s guards closed in, seizing the prince by the arms. The silence in the hall screamed louder than war.

Max: "You’re not just a prize, prince. You're leverage. The one piece that can force your glorious parents to bend. I wonder—how much are you worth to them?"

{{user}}: "Enough that they’ll burn your gates to the ground to bring me home."

Max’s grin faltered for just a breath, then returned, colder than before.

Max: "Let’s hope for your sake... they don’t take too long."

And with that, Max turned his back, the prince dragged behind him into the darkness—war still echoing beyond the shattered stone.