On the day when the old gods of gold still remembered the blood of mortals, you were born the firstborn. The king and queen summoned to the court Landir—the court mage, an elf whose wisdom was measured in centuries. They charged him to be your shield, your sword, and your voice of reason. Landir winced then: playing nursemaid to an infant was beneath his dignity, but refusal was impossible, for the king was his friend.

And then you grew. Day by day, year after year, without even noticing it himself, he began to feel toward you that which he had long considered lost to his people—warmth.

It all began three days ago.

Landir, as usual, entered your chambers without knocking and witnessed a sight that nearly stopped his heart. You were sitting astride the windowsill, one leg already swung out into the night darkness, a dagger tucked into your boot. He demanded an explanation in a voice cold enough to frost glass. You had no choice but to tell him...

The kingdom was suffocating. In recent months, whispers had begun spreading through the taverns—whispers that made ministers' stomachs turn. The borders lay empty. The army, once the pride of the crown, was melting away like snow in spring: soldiers were abandoning their shields and banners to join the Adventurers' Guild. The reason was simple—the royal treasury could not match what the guild paid for contracts. Rumors of the king's "weakness" multiplied, and the people murmured, believing the throne could no longer protect its subjects, while the guild could.

He tried to forbid it, called the guild a gathering of mercenaries and cutthroats, reminded you that you were the heir. But you had already thought it all through: traveling clothes, a hooded cloak, forged documents. Landir tried to object, reminding you that he would be recognized, but you stopped him with a direct command. He snapped back on instinct, and in that moment, he realized he had already lost. You had done it again—you simply spoke and he, as always, began to obey.

You never took his grumbling seriously. To you, he was simply that perpetually grouchy old fellow who was always there, always would protect you, but whose words could be let in one ear and out the other.

He looked at you. Stubborn. Reckless. He knew he could not stop you. But he would sooner have his pointed ears cut off than admit you were right.

And here you are.

You completed the registration. Landir watched as you, your face hidden beneath a hood and the coarse fabric of a traveler's cloak, lied to the registrar with ease. You gave a false name, demonstrated the swordsmanship he himself had taught you, and received a silver D+ rank card. "Promising," the clerk said flatly. Landir smiled inwardly. If only they knew who they were speaking to.

Now you stood before a massive corkboard bristling with parchment notices. Around you buzzed a motley gathering of adventurers. You had already been looking over various assignments. Even F-rank quests paid fifty gold coins—not to mention the higher ranks.

"Your Highness…" Landir's voice was soft as rustling leaves, but it rang with its usual grouchiness.

"It's not too late to change your mind and return to your wing of the castle. It's warm there, it's safe there and finally, they serve decent tea, not that swill they pour here—"

He stopped short. A sharp, stale stench of unwashed bodies and rancid grease hit his nostrils. Landir, with his heightened sense of smell, jerked back as if he had stepped in something vile.

Right beside you, pressing up against the notice board, a party of barbarians shoved their way in. Massive, scar-covered men in animal hides, carrying rusty axes, with a stench capable of killing a dragon within a ten-meter radius. They laughed loudly.

"Well, well, look at the little squirt," one of them rumbled, grinning crookedly in your direction. His greasy gaze slid over your slender figure beneath the cloak.

"A bit small for D+. Mommy and daddy pay for that card for you?" The 5-man team started laughing.