A lone figure strode through the grand corridor, his heavy boots striking the polished obsidian floor in a steady, deliberate rhythm. The flickering blue fire from the mithril chandeliers cast long shadows that danced along the black granite pillars, their golden veins glinting like molten rivers frozen in time.
His face, half-shrouded by the shifting light, bore a jagged scar that ran from the edge of his brow, cutting diagonally past his cheekbone—an old wound, deep enough that it had once threatened to claim his eye.
Despite the sheer immensity of the hall, he walked with purpose, undeterred by the towering statues of long-dead kings that loomed from their pedestals. The scent of burning embers lingered in the air, carried by an unseen draft.
As he neared the end of the corridor, the massive adamantine doors to the King's Chamber loomed before him, carved with the royal crest of Drakholm—a mountain split by a river of fire. He hesitated for only a moment before pushing forward, reaching for the heavy doors.
The chamber beyond was dimly lit. Torches flickered against the cold stone walls, their wavering light casting deep shadows across the ancient engravings of conquest and war. A grand stained-glass window at the far end spilled a blood-red glow upon the floor, as though the very room pulsed with life.
At the center of it all sat a man in a high-backed chair of dark mahogany, positioned before an exquisite table.
"…You are here."
The voice was heavy, resonating through the chamber like the distant rumble of thunder.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The scar-faced man dropped to one knee, bowing his head in unwavering respect.
Draven Drakholm, King of Drakholm, observed him in silence, his golden eyes gleaming under the dim torchlight. The flickering flames carved restless patterns across his chiseled features, their light licking at the towering pillars that surrounded him.
"Raise your head."
The scar-faced man obeyed, lifting his gaze to meet the king's. His sharp eyes took in every detail—the obsidian throne, the sigil of Drakholm etched in silver upon its backrest, the scattered scrolls and decrees upon the grand table. But none held more power than the man before him.
Draven Drakholm—the one who held the strings of destiny in his grasp.
"Did you find anything useful?" Draven's voice carried a heavy weight, his tone laced with authority and expectation.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The scar-faced man took his time to respond, his words measured.
Draven's eyes narrowed slightly. "So, what did you discover?" He leaned forward, his curiosity barely breaking through the mask of his usual sternness.
Ever since the princess had declared her intent to propose an engagement to Darian, the palace had been thrown into turmoil. Her beauty was well known, but those closest to her spoke more of her intelligence—sharp, strategic, and often unreadable. For her to make such a decision was both puzzling and, to many, utterly unacceptable.
A weary breath escaped Draven's lips. As her father—the one who knew her best—he still could not decipher the true meaning behind her choice.
The memory of their conversation lingered in his mind, as vivid as the day it had happened.
---
A Few Days Ago…
"Father, please propose my engagement to the youngest son of Ashthorn's king."
Draven had stared at her, his mind racing. "Why?"
Despite the countless questions clawing at his thoughts, this was the only word he managed to utter.
"...."
But in the end, all he received was silence. Not just any silence, but the kind that was suffocating—unyielding, as if she was forbidden to speak a single word more.
And so, he had been left with nothing but unanswered questions.
---
Draven muttered to himself, his jaw tightening. "Even if my daughter refuses to speak, that doesn't mean I will simply accept it in silence."
He had cherished his daughter deeply. Even if she chose not to reveal the reason behind her decision, he would uncover it on his own—no matter what it took.
A sigh threatened to escape him as he felt the beginnings of a headache. He could already picture the storm he would face if she ever discovered his interference.
Shaking the thought aside, Draven turned his gaze toward the scar-faced man, who remained patiently silent, waiting for his king to collect his thoughts.
Draven cleared his throat, a subtle signal for the man to continue.
"Your Highness, the information I was provided with… isn't entirely accurate."
His tone carried a hint of caution—he knew all too well that questioning the palace's intelligence was a dangerous gamble.
As if to confirm his fears, Draven's eyes narrowed, his voice sharp. "Why do you say that?"
The man swallowed before speaking quickly. "Your Highness, his appearance is completely different from what was reported. If I hadn't followed him personally from his castle to the academy, I might have mistaken him for someone else entirely."
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he felt the weight of Draven's aura pressing down on him, sharp and suffocating.
A long silence followed. Draven studied him, his piercing gaze unyielding. Then, with a slow exhale, he leaned back, his expression returning to its usual composed state.
"Anything else?"
A mere change in appearance was of little concern to him. Even if the transformation was as drastic as night and day, what mattered in this world was strength—nothing more.
The scar-faced man hesitated, searching his memory. Then, something surfaced—something that made his expression shift to one of deep seriousness.
Draven caught it instantly. "What is it?"
The man clenched his fists. "Your Highness… he was able to hold his ground against me."
For the first time, Draven's eyes widened.
An impossible notion.
The scar-faced man wasn't just an ordinary spy—he was the leader of the kingdom's Shadow Group, an elite force that operated directly under the king. His strength even surpassed that of the knight captain.
And yet… a mere academy student—one who had only just entered his second year—had been able to stand against him?
Draven's voice was measured, but his disbelief was evident. "Are you certain?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
A heavy silence settled between them. Draven's mind raced, searching for answers to a situation that defied reason.
"Could this be connected to her proposal…?"
His daughter's engagement had already sent ripples through the palace, but now… now there was something more at play. Something he had yet to understand.
Draven exhaled sharply, pushing aside his thoughts for now. His golden gaze settled back on the scar-faced man, who remained silently awaiting further instructions.
"Prepare yourself." Draven's voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. "You will accompany the Princess to the academy as her bodyguard. She will be departing soon."
With those words, he motioned for him to leave.
The scar-faced man bowed deeply before turning and vanishing from the chamber.
Left alone in the suffocating silence, Draven leaned back against his chair, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
"Daughter… you truly know how to trouble your father."
His voice was barely above a whisper, carrying a weight of unspoken worries.
"I only hope… your decision is the right one."
His words faded, swallowed by the cold hush of the chamber.