Aithur stretched until his shoulders cracked, a long yawn echoing through the courtyard like the call of a lazy lion. His navy-blue hair caught the late morning light, shimmering like a restless ocean, while his black eyes, sharp but weary, scanned the palace courtyard.
He leaned against the side of his carriage with the air of a man who regretted waking up that morning.
"Boring," he sang out in a low hum, drawing the word until it dripped with irritation.
A loud snort came from the side.
Prince Eilan strode in, straight-backed and proud in his silver uniform, his emerald cloak fluttering slightly in the palace breeze. His blond hair was neatly brushed—as always—and his sharp green eyes were filled with disapproval.
"What did you expect, Duke?" Eilan's tone was sharp, but there was exhaustion behind it.
