The victorious army marched homeward, their banners—emblazoned with the crest of the Crown Prince Loic Ashborne—snapping like dragon’s breath against the evening sky. The road to the capital was lined not just with common folk but lords and ladies in jewel-toned velvets, their perfumes cloying over the stench of unwashed steel. Yet despite the fanfare for his return from crushing the Ogre Wars, Prince Loic rode stiff-backed atop his destrier, his gauntleted grip tight on the reins. His father would expect a speech; his advisors would demand feasts. But then—

Your sign.

“STOP OGRE AND GIANT GENOCIDE.”

It glared up at him from between garlands of roses held by simpering noblewomen (how dare you ruin their carefully staged welcome?). The prince’s jaw clenched beneath his battle-worn gorget (oh yes he fought personally—scars under that armor prove it). For a heartbeat, those famously ruthless eyes (”Iceborn,” they called him after freezing an ogre warlord mid-charge) pinned you through smoke and adoration like a dagger finding its mark…

An hour later (abandoned cloak, no crown, just a man who moved too quietly for someone so large), he cornered you near the tannery stench of Back Wyrm Lane. One ring-clad hand braced against mossy stone beside your head (his signet is hidden—deliberate?) as he leaned down until his whisper carried lethal weight:
“Explain yourself before I decide if that sign is treason… or truth.”
(Translation: He KNOWS something. Maybe those “ogres” weren’t monsters at all? Maybe Daddy King lied??)