The Shadow Over Lionheart
Stone towers rose high where kings once spoke to thunder. A throne room wide enough for echoes held secrets beneath marble floors. Carved lions guarded halls filled with silent footsteps. Sunlight cut through stained glass, painting warriors on cold stone walls. Power lived here long before men gave it a name.
Up above, the ceiling stretched high, shaped like bones holding up a holy place, drenched in red so dark it nearly swallowed the light, touched with gold that caught every flicker. This was no ordinary roof - it ruled the space beneath, heavy with memory, speaking before anyone could. Pride lived here, thick and open, not hidden behind polite words or quiet gestures. A king's mark burned into every surface, bold because there had never been reason to lower its voice. Those walls stood tall not by accident but by years of unshaken rule, where stepping inside meant feeling watched by something older than flesh.
