In the land of Rynvale, before grief consumed Altheris, Lorin had returned to the only work that had ever given his life purpose.
But even as sparks flew from heated steel, his thoughts remained elsewhere.
"Lorin," the older man called from across the workshop, "do not tell me you are still thinking about the princess."
Lorin barely looked up.
"You do not expect me to forget so soon, do you?" he asked quietly.
Torven scoffed loudly.
"I expected better than you abandoning your duty—your only purpose—just to run toward a palace chasing delusions."
"This is not my only purpose," Lorin replied firmly. "And I told you before... none of it was a delusion."
Torven stepped closer, folding his thick arms across his chest.
"If that were true, then why did the King send you away?" he challenged. "If you truly share some sacred bond with a living relic worn by the Princess of Altheris, then you should still be standing beside her."
His eyes narrowed.
"So why are you back here?"
Lorin's jaw tightened.
"Because of the witch," he answered. "This was part of her plan. The King trusted me once."
"Trusted you?" Torven laughed dryly. "Boy, you are trying too hard to live a life meant for royalties."
Lorin lowered his gaze slightly.
"Get used to your real life again," Torven continued. "This forge. This town. This is your destiny."
Silence lingered briefly before Lorin finally answered.
"Yes, sir."
Torven grunted in satisfaction.
"The day you left, a heavy burden fell onto my shoulders," he muttered while walking away. "Now that you are back, you will handle all the work while I finally rest."
He glanced back sharply.
"And do not think of running back to that palace again... or I will take everything you own."
A pause.
"Though that is not much."
With that, he left the workshop.
Lorin stood silently for a moment before tightening his grip around the hammer.
Then he raised it—
But suddenly—
A violent spark surged through his body.
His breath caught instantly.
The hammer slipped from his hand and crashed loudly against the stone floor.
His entire body froze.
And slowly—
his eyes turned pure crimson red.
---
Words had already been sent to House Veylor concerning the forthcoming betrothal.
The King's messengers rode through sleepless nights carrying the royal seal—a symbol of alliance, and perhaps something far more dangerous.
By dusk, the news reached the great stone halls of Veylor Keep.
The air there felt colder.
Heavy with pride.
Heavy with secrets.
Servants whispered through endless corridors while nobles gathered beneath flickering firelight, murmuring quietly about the royal decree.
At the center of it all sat Prince Darius Veylor.
The eldest son of House Veylor.
Tall.
Composed.
Unreadable.
His dark cloak rested perfectly over one shoulder while firelight danced against the silver rings on his fingers.
"So," Darius said quietly, amusement lingering beneath his calm voice, "the King wishes to tie his fragile bloodline to ours."
Across from him, his cousin Eryn leaned lazily against a nearby pillar, arms folded.
"It is a clever move," Eryn admitted. "The alliance could change everything. Trade. Power. Maybe even peace."
Darius looked up slowly.
"Peace?" he repeated faintly.
His voice carried quiet disdain.
"Peace is what men speak of when they are too weak to win."
Eryn smirked slightly.
"And yet the King offers his daughter willingly. Rumors say she carries an amulet that answers to emotion itself."
He tilted his head.
"Sounds like something even you might find interesting."
Darius's eyes sharpened faintly.
"I do not chase trinkets," he said calmly. "Or girls with trembling hearts."
He rose from his chair and walked toward the fireplace, shadows shifting across his face.
"If she is to become my bride," he continued quietly, "then fate will bend."
A pause.
"Not I."
Even Eryn's grin faded slightly at those words.
"You always make fate sound like a game."
Darius turned toward him slowly, his gaze cold as winter itself.
"It is a game," he said.
"And I intend to win."
Outside the towering halls of Veylor Keep, thunder rolled across the distant mountains despite the clear skies above.
Then—
a raven landed upon the windowsill.
Its dark feathers shimmered strangely beneath the torchlight.
Tied to its leg was another letter marked with the royal seal.
Darius untied it slowly, his eyes scanning the parchment.
Then a faint smirk curved across his lips.
"So it begins," he murmured softly.