"The five-hundred-year wait is nearing its end. The final key to unlocking this world… will soon be in my hands."
...
Since the break of dawn, Calonia Palace had been filled with extraordinary commotion. The usually quiet halls now echoed with the footsteps of servants and soldiers hurrying to prepare for the crown prince's coronation—a ceremony announced so suddenly that it stirred countless questions.
And yet, in the midst of all the noise and urgency, the very person at the center of it all remained the calmest.
Arion Balderick VIII, the prince soon to be named Crown Prince of Aetherlyn, sat casually in the palace's rear garden. Seated among grass still damp with morning dew, he chatted with his childhood friend, Amaya—the princess of the Kingdom of Avallon. Their peaceful expressions stood in stark contrast to the tense atmosphere spreading through the palace.
From a distance, a pair of eyes watched them in silence—eyes belonging to Prince Igris, one of Arion's half-brothers. His gaze was sharp, nearly burning, hiding something unspoken… a festering resentment behind a courteous smile.
Sensing the weight of that cold stare, Amaya finally made a decision.
"Come with me—let's go explore the city," she whispered lightly, though in her heart she knew this wasn't just a stroll. She wanted to pull Arion away—from the walls that whispered, from the voices that chipped away at him behind marble and gold.
But just as they were about to slip through the palace's back gate, Arion suddenly stopped. His body stiffened, as if some invisible wall blocked his path.
"What's wrong?" Amaya asked, a hint of concern in her voice.
"…I'm actually forbidden from leaving the palace."
Amaya rolled her eyes, then smiled faintly.
"Rules are meant to be broken, Your Highness."
Without waiting for approval, she grabbed his hand and pulled him along, leaving all protocols and restrictions behind. Arion glanced back briefly, hoping no one had seen them leave…
But that hope was in vain.
Someone did see.
Someone always did.
A tall, silent figure followed their steps—quiet as the night wind.
"Wait," Amaya said suddenly, halting. Her sharp eyes glanced back.
From afar, a man stood firm at the end of the street. His gaze was piercing, though his face remained unreadably calm.
"Davian…" Arion murmured under his breath.
"I thought I was just being paranoid," Amaya hissed, irritation plain in her voice.
"But clearly, we were being followed."
She stepped forward, her gaze fixed on Davian with something like a challenge.
"Princess Amaya," Davian greeted with a respectful nod, "your instincts remain as sharp as ever. But may I ask… where exactly are you heading, without a single guard?"
Amaya clicked her tongue softly.
"Don't meddle."
Davian wasn't offended. He merely smiled faintly and replied, calm but firm:
"If something were to happen to the Crown Prince out there, it wouldn't just stain Aetherlyn's name… but Avallon's as well."
Amaya groaned.
"Great… he's not backing off."
She gave Arion a quick side glance, then glared at Davian again. But she knew it was useless. Davian would not be dismissed. Quietly, she began to regret that her plan to spend time alone with Arion had failed completely.
When they reached the city center, the welcome was overwhelming. The streets overflowed with genuine smiles, outstretched hands, and the joyous cries of children who recognized the young prince. There were no walls between noble blood and the common folk. Even Davian's distant presence did little to dim the warmth that bloomed around them.
Though hidden guards began emerging from various corners, the citizens remained free to approach—greeting, offering gifts, speaking kind words to both the prince and the princess. Everything unfolded with respectful excitement.
But beneath the cheerful chaos, only Davian paid attention to the smallest details: the glint in a beggar's eyes, a suspicious figure shifting on a rooftop, whispers exchanged in shadowed alleys.
From afar, he noticed signs others would easily dismiss… but to him, they were like gathering storm clouds on an otherwise perfect sky.
Because fate—true fate—never arrives without shadows trailing close behind.