Morning light spilled into the grand royal dining hall, bathing its marble floors and golden chandeliers in soft brilliance.
At the long dining table, Emperor Valen Arctis sat in his usual seat, composed and regal. Beside him was Empress Seraphine Nyros, calm and graceful, her fingers lightly wrapped around a porcelain teacup. Across from them, their second son, Prince Lucian Arctis, quietly enjoyed his breakfast, every movement precise, as expected of royalty.
The room was peaceful. Polished. Silent but dignified.
Two palace guards stood at the tall double doors, dressed in immaculate black and silver uniforms. One of them stepped forward, cleared his throat, and both began to speak in unison:
> "Presenting, His Highness, Prince Asl—"
THUD!
The double doors crashed open with a deafening slam, cutting the announcement short.
Both guards standing at the entrance were caught off-guard—literally. The doors swung straight into their faces, leaving them stunned and speechless.
One bent down to pick up his helmet from the floor. The other just stood there, still frozen in shock.
For a moment, the royal dining hall stood completely still.
King Valen calmly sipped his tea, a small smile playing on his lips. Empress Seraphine raised an eyebrow, unfazed.
Prince Lucian sighed deeply and rubbed his temple, already dreading what came next.
"There he goes again," he muttered under his breath.
And then… he walked in.
His crimson-red hair was wild and tousled, yet somehow effortlessly stylish. His eyes—burning scarlet—gleamed with untamed mischief. A silver chain swung lightly around his neck, catching the light. The top one button of his black shirt was undone, revealing just a hint of collarbone and swagger.
On his left wrist, just above the joint, was a small dragon symbol—not large, about two inches wide, but striking.
It pulsed softly with a light-blue glow, subtle but steady, like starlight rippling across still water.
There was something about it that made it clear—this mark was anything but ordinary.
He didn't need to do anything.
Yet his presence alone shifted the air.
Tall for his age—only fifteen—but he carried himself like someone who had lived a hundred lives. He was handsome, yes, but it wasn't just his looks. There was a raw charisma to him, a kind of beauty that dared you to look away.
Aslan Arctis.
The third prince.
The outcast. The problem. The one no one could quite predict.
He said nothing. No greeting. No apology.
He simply dragged out the chair opposite Lucian and dropped into it with casual arrogance. Then—without a word—he propped both feet up on the chair beside him, like he was claiming territory in enemy land.
The rebel had arrived.