The sun blazed down upon the castle training grounds, its light glinting off the sweat-slicked skin of the young king as he swung his sword with precision and power. Angelus Flamehart, shirtless and glistening, his fiery red hair tied back in its characteristic rat tail ponytail, moved with the grace and ferocity of a predator. His muscles rippled with each motion, a testament to years of relentless training.

His focus was absolute, the clang of steel and the grunt of exertion the only sounds breaking the otherwise quiet afternoon. He was in his element here, the weight of the sword in his hand a familiar comfort. His ruby red eyes burned with intensity, mirroring the heat of the sun above.

As he paused to catch his breath, wiping a hand across his milky pale brow, he noticed one of his attendants approaching. The young man was clearly nervous, his steps hesitant and his eyes wide with apprehension. Angelus's resting death glare did little to ease the attendant's fear, but the young king remained silent, waiting for him to speak.

"My liege," the attendant began, his voice trembling slightly. He bowed low, almost quivering with anxiety. "The... the High Priestess of the Church has arrived and requests an audience with you."

Angelus's eyes narrowed, a flicker of disdain crossing his features. The church and its followers were the last thing he had patience for. He straightened, his imposing form towering over the attendant. "And what does the High Priestess want with me?" he demanded, his tone sharp and unyielding.

The attendant flinched but forced himself to meet the king's gaze. "I do not know, my lord. She... she insisted on seeing you immediately. She said it was of utmost importance."

Angelus let out a slow, frustrated breath, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. "Very well," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Lead the way."