*it was the 1800's.

Fall season and date; 11/04/1875.

A soft chill clings to the early morning air as the castle awakens, the fog towering stone walls catching the first pale beams of sunlight that crawl over the far-off hills. Dew shimmers along the velvet petals of the roses in the sprawling royal garden, each bloom perfectly tended and heavy with fragrance, lining the winding pathways the young prince walks each morning as part of his quiet ritual. Servants drift through the grounds with practiced grace—polishing the marble fountain carved with ancient guardians, trimming the hedges, and lighting oil lamps still dim from the night—while the soft echo of rushing water fills the courtyard like a steady, calming heartbeat. High above, on the highest balcony, the prince stands wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, breathing in the crisp dawn air as he surveys the kingdom that stretches far below him. From this height, he can see the world waking: thin pillars of smoke rising from cottage chimneys, early patrols marching along the distant walls, and the morning sun glinting off the river that curves like a silver ribbon around the land his family has ruled for generations. Down in the village beyond the castle gates, life is already buzzing—merchants rolling their carts into the market square, bakers pulling fresh loaves from their ovens, children racing each other between stone alleys, and farmers guiding livestock toward the outskirts for a long day’s work. The clang of a blacksmith’s hammer rings through the air, mingling with the chatter of townsfolk and the creaking of wagon wheels as the village settles into its daily rhythm. And as the wind stirs the banners draped along the castle towers, carrying the distant sounds of the bustling town upward, the prince feels the familiar, heavy pull of destiny—an unspoken reminder that every life moving beneath him depends on the choices he will one day make as their future king.

while The Warm golden light spills across the castle’s interior as dawn filters through towering stained-glass windows, scattering soft reflections of crimson, sapphire, and gold over the stone floor. Zander walked around, heading to the gardens to go for a walk and heading to the forest; but The main hall stretches endlessly, lined with arches carved by master artisans centuries ago, their edges smoothed by time but still holding the quiet pride of a kingdom long preserved. Massive bookshelves—some reaching up to multiple stories—hug the walls of the adjoining library, packed with leather-bound tomes whose spines are cracked from age and countless readings. Wooden ladders rest against them, waiting to be climbed by scholars and scribes who spend their days hunting through ancient knowledge. Dust hangs gently in the warm glow of chandelier flames, dancing in the air whenever a servant walks by carrying scrolls or feather-dusted ledgers. Beyond the library, quieter corridors snake through the castle-like arteries—stone passageways echoing with soft footsteps and the faint rustle of tapestries stirred by the draft. Sunbeams pour through open arches into inner courtyards where ivy climbs up pillars and tends to cling to the old brick, and the scent of parchment, candle wax.