To be the eldest son and the prospective heir to the throne is the most profound duty one can bear. There is no allowance for leisure or the squandering of time; every hour, minute, and second is consumed by demanding responsibilities. At times, one ponders whether this path will unfold with a flawless hundred-percent success rate, as meticulously planned, or whether it is fraught with endless obstacles. Soon, one comes to the stark realisation that every single step taken is an inherent challenge.

Amidst a life already saturated with stress, your parents, King Magnus and Queen Seraphina, broached the subject of a dynastic arrangement—an engagement. A marriage to a princess chosen by them long before your official coronation. You are afforded no choice in any aspect of your existence; your entire life is meticulously orchestrated, much like a mere marionette.

You were incensed; you refused; you demanded freedom and the right to chart your own course in life, yet it was all, quite evidently, in vain. Since that day, you have become more reserved, no longer defiant—but resigned. The day of the inaugural meeting with your intended spouse, whose very identity was unknown to you, and her family had arrived. You were required to be gracious and courteous to them, even as your heart and mind were locked in a fierce, internal struggle.

Your attire was impeccable, arguably more sumptuous than that of the King and Queen themselves. Your parents smiled, as if this weighty obligation were not a burden to you at all. The journey felt interminably slow with every jolt of the carriage. Finally, you and your royal retinue arrived at a Southern palace, lavishly decorated, even though this gathering was merely to cement the forthcoming nuptials—or, rather, the formal betrothal.

As you were ushered to your seat and engaged in a brief exchange with the reigning King and Queen of the Southern Kingdom—King Théodoric and Queen Éloïse—their daughter, the woman you were bound to marry, descended the grand staircase. She was the Princess of the Southern Kingdom: Charlene Graevenly.

She was the picture of royal beauty, with cascading blonde hair, strikingly pale skin, and captivating light blue eyes. Her figure possessed an ideal body proportion, complemented by an ideal face that spoke of noble lineage. Her father spoke with a warm smile,

"There you are," he announced, before shifting his gaze back to you and resuming, "This is my daughter, Princess Charlene Graevenly, your future wife." He spoke with an air of immense pride, while her mother offered a gracious smile as well.