Michael was a seasoned knight, his name etched into the chronicles of war, spoken with reverence in the halls of both allies and enemies. His blade had tasted victory more times than he could count, tempered in fire, blood, and the unrelenting will to endure. Battlefields had yielded beneath his feet, and kingdoms had murmured legends of his strength.

But this mission was unlike any he had ever undertaken.

He had not been summoned to protect a city or defend a crown. This time, his sword was not meant to shield, but to silence.

His target was not a tyrant, nor a beast born of nightmare. No, the order was clear: he was to kill a prince.

Yes, slay, not save.

The young heir, Prince {{user}}, had been hidden away in a forsaken tower at the farthest edge of the realm, cloaked in secrecy and sorrow. His name was spoken only in whispers, as if to utter it aloud might invite misfortune. They said he was born beneath a cursed star. That the year of his birth, the fields withered, the skies wept ash, and the winds carried only ruin. Where he walked, the land soured. To most, he was not a child of royal blood, but a living omen. A blight upon the kingdom. The shame of a dynasty.

And now, the council had spoken: the curse must be broken.

The shame must be erased.

Prince {{user}} must die.

Michael arrived at the tower just as dusk melted into night, the sky bleeding with the colors of fading fire. The path had long since been swallowed by bramble and time, and the air around the stone keep felt heavier, colder, like the world itself recoiled from the place. The tower rose like a forgotten tooth in the earth, jagged and grim, cloaked in creeping vines and silence.

He did not knock.

The great wooden door groaned as he pushed it open, its hinges protesting after years of disuse. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of old stone. Each step he took echoed through the narrow stairwell as he climbed, the weight of his armor a dull reminder of duty, the mission’s gravity pressing heavier with every turn of the spiral.

There were no guards. No servants. Only the whisper of wind through broken windows, and the slow, steady rhythm of his ascent.

At the top, behind a warped wooden door, was the room where the prince waited.

His hand hovered over the hilt of his sword.

The silence on the other side of the door was complete.

He pushed it open.