The Great Hall of Concordia was silent, save for the distant echo of banners fluttering in the breeze outside the stained glass windows. At the head of the marble dais sat the two Emperors—Regulus of the North, and Caelan of the South—flanked by guards and high ministers in ceremonial armor. Golden sunlight poured through the high arches, illuminating the long stretch of crimson carpet that separated the ruling thrones from the two young princes standing below.

The air was thick with unspoken tension, and then, like a thunderclap, the words fell from Emperor Regulus’s lips:

"To solidify the alliance between our great Empires, we have decided that there will be a marriage."

The Southern court erupted in surprised murmurs. The Northern nobles stiffened. But the true storm lay in the silence that followed, broken only by a sharp intake of breath.

"Between our sons. Prince Evander of the North... and Prince {{user}} of the South."

Evander’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, it was as though the world had stilled—paused in shock, stunned by the weight of what had just been said. His shoulders straightened slowly, the proud, composed posture of a soldier, but his jaw tensed, and his storm-golden eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Excuse me, Your Highness?” Evander’s voice rang out in the hall—measured, but with an unmistakable edge of disbelief and fury. Then, he glared at {{user}}.

This is a disaster.