Upon reaching the grand hall, Arion found his father standing with his back turned, gazing at the line of statues—monuments to the kings of Aetherlyn, each figure proudly upholding the legacy and glory passed down through the ages. The room shimmered with a majestic aura, bathed in golden sunlight streaming through stained glass windows, as if sanctifying every corner with timeless grace.
With calmer steps, Arion approached the towering figure before him.
Without a word, King Balderick VII opened his arms and embraced Arion warmly. It was not only the embrace of a father—but also that of a king to his heir.
Then, he raised a hand and pointed to the elegant throne of Aetherlyn at the end of the hall.
"Arion," he said in a deep, steady voice,
"that is the seat of Aetherlyn's greatest rulers. From there, history is written. Glory is forged. And your time to sit upon it… is drawing near."
Arion stood frozen. His face tensed—his eyes betraying surprise, disbelief, and an unease he couldn't hide.
"Wait… you mean, I'm going to be king? You're certain—about me? But… aren't there still so many who oppose me? Those who say I'm unworthy… because I—"
"—lack the Blessing," his father finished calmly, as if he had long understood the wound behind those words.
"Let them talk. The throne doesn't belong only to those born with gifts. It belongs to those ready to carry its weight."
Arion lowered his gaze, his voice trembling.
"But… what if I fail? What if I can't live up to their expectations… to yours?"
The king smiled—soft, yet firm. He placed a hand gently on his son's head, a gesture full of affection only a father who truly understood his child's pain could give.
"Life isn't about how the world sees you. It's about how you choose to stand—especially when no one believes in you. Being yourself… that is a leader's greatest strength."
They sat together beneath the shadows of the kingdom they both loved. No protocol, no guards, no formality. Just a father and son—sharing laughter, stories, and dreams, mending the bond long stretched by distance and war.
That night, Arion stood on his bedroom balcony. The evening breeze kissed his face as moonlight danced behind wisps of cloud. In the distance, the city sky bloomed with bursts of fireworks—some celebration taking place below. But his thoughts drifted far beyond, lost in the uncertainties of what lay ahead.
Suddenly, a soft knock came from the door.
Arion turned. He opened it quickly—and stood stunned by who awaited him.
"Amaya?!"
Standing at the threshold was a young woman with flowing hair and a gentle smile. Her face radiated calm, yet her eyes glimmered with a spark of untamed adventure.
"Hello to you too," Amaya replied lightly, offering a casual wave.
She was a Princess of the Kingdom of Avallon—a land famed for its crystal rivers, grand waterfalls, and nature so untouched it seemed frozen in time. Avallon bordered Aetherlyn, Pyrefall, and Orelia, acting as a quiet balance between the great powers of Paragon.
"You don't look very happy to see me," she teased, tilting her head playfully.
Arion chuckled softly.
"It's not that. I just… wasn't expecting you. Especially not at midnight."
Amaya stepped inside, twirling gracefully, her gown flowing like a ribbon around her feet.
"I came at my uncle's request. He said I had to arrive early… to attend your coronation."
She bowed lightly, her gesture elegant and precise.
"Soon, you'll be officially named Crown Prince, Arion. And I wouldn't miss it for anything."
Arion's smile finally returned. But beneath it, his heart still beat softly with anticipation. He knew this night marked the beginning of something greater. And Amaya's arrival… was the first sign that fate was quietly moving toward the heart of the throne.