Prince Alaric stood on the high balcony of his private quarters, his tall frame silhouetted against the molten gold of the early morning. The rising sun bled across the sky in streaks of amber and orange, casting long shadows over the training grounds below. With his hands clasped behind his back, posture regal and still, he watched his soldiers spar with precision and purpose—each clash of steel ringing out like a vow to the kingdom.
The wind tugged at the edges of his deep blue cloak, the finely embroidered threads catching the light like strands of starlight. It rippled around him, not unlike a royal banner raised in silent defiance. His dark hair, unbound and tousled by the morning breeze, framed a face carved by war and responsibility. Beside him, on a low stone table, rested Arespada—a broadsword forged from the obsidian-hued iron of the ancient north. Its edge shimmered faintly with the hue of blue flame, a weapon of legend.
