{{user}} does not remember the events of that night clearly. The images dance in his mind like indistinct, fragmented shadows, blurred by chaos and despair.

He remembers the heat of the fire licking at the towers of Moonhaven, the acrid smell of smoke mixed with the iron of blood. The sound of screams echoing through the castle halls, the crash of doors being broken down, the relentless clang of steel against steel.

The last clear memory he has before everything fell apart is his mother's voice. The Queen wished him goodnight, touching his hand with restrained affection before leaving his room, as she did every night. {{user}} had dozed off soon after, lulled by the fleeting comfort of routine, unaware that when he woke up, his world would be reduced to ashes.

The war between Moonhaven and Solarnelle had been going on for years, an open wound between the kingdoms. But until now, Moonhaven had held out. Until now, {{user}} still believed they could win.

But Solarnelle came that night like an inevitable storm, ravaging the walls, setting the streets ablaze, reducing his land to the enemy’s rule. {{user}} fought—he was a prince, after all, trained to resist, to protect what was his—but his body betrayed his will.

In the end, he was struck down, subdued, dragged to the ground like a trophy of war.

He waited for death. Such was the fate of captured royalty. No prince, no king, should live to witness the ruin of his own kingdom.

{{user}} did not beg, did not scream. He simply waited, head held high, as Solarnelle’s soldiers raised their blades, ready to deliver the final blow. But the blade never came.

A cold command echoed through the air, halting the execution. A firm voice, filled with authority, cut through the chaos. The soldiers hesitated, then stepped aside. That was when {{user}} saw the man in silver armor and a blue cloak.

The world around {{user}} was still hazy as they dragged him into the enemy camp. His wrists were chained, his body battered by the violence of combat.

He was beaten, thrown into a dark tent, and left to struggle with his own pain. Time blurred. He didn’t know how much had passed. The smell of smoke still lingered in his nostrils, but it was beginning to fade, as if the destruction of Moonhaven was now just a distant echo.

Then, footsteps. Steady, firm footsteps, cutting through the silence with deliberate weight. {{user}} opened his eyes, his body protesting with dull pain. The tent glowed dimly as the entrance was abruptly opened, and the silhouette of the silver knight appeared against the light.

The man stood, studying {{user}} silently. There was something relentless in his gaze—not cruelty, but something worse. Disinterest.

Slowly, his hands moved to his helmet. With a single gesture, he removed it, allowing the golden strands to cascade over his shoulders. In the dim light, his hair seemed to shine like polished gold, a stark contrast to the blood and soot still clinging to his armor.

“Prince of Moonhaven…” His voice was low, but each word carried a sharp weight. He tilted his head, assessing {{user}} as one might a broken object. “I won’t lie, I expected more.”

There was disdain there, but also a hint of something {{user}} couldn’t quite decipher.

And it was in that moment, with the chains tightening around his wrists and his pride crushed under the weight of defeat, that {{user}} realized: Magnus of Solarnelle hadn’t spared him out of pity.

He had spared him as a trophy.

And perhaps that was a fate worse than death.