The kingdom of Ameranthia stood like a crown upon the world — vast, golden, and battle-scarred. From the salt-bitten ports of the east to the iron-clad fortresses of the northern hills, its banners flew high, proud with the image of a rising eagle. For generations, kings forged their rule through war and fire, and peace was never taken for granted — it was earned, dearly.At its heart stood Valebourne, the royal capital, carved in stone and legacy. Within its towering walls, lined with marble and memory. Here the whispers moved faster than swords — and far faster than truth.
The halls glimmered with candlelight, but the air was cold. Today, all eyes watched the main corridor, where a storm approached — not of weather, but of footsteps of One man.
Prince Alric Thorne, the second prince of Ameranthia, strode alone—his boots striking sharp and sure against the marble. Clad in battleworn leathers and bearing the scars of the border wars, he wore no crown, yet held a presence heavy as iron. His black hair fell wild and damp along a strong jaw, and the red wolf sigil on his shoulder marked victories won far from the safety of these halls.
Servants swept aside, murmuring behind hands:
"He's just returned from the east…"
"Not a single guard with him."
"He's more soldier than prince, that one."
Alric's eyes, gray as a storm, never wavered. Whispers and wary glances drained away behind him, swallowed by the silence that always followed wherever he went.
Ahead, the great blackwood doors of the throne room stood tall, latticed with silver and the history of kings. Two royal guards, stiff with nerves, stepped aside as Alric drew near. At the briefest gesture, the doors swung open, and the cold light of morning spilled across the marble at his feet.
Inside, golden banners draped the pillars, and nobles leaned forward in their seats. At the far end, on the obsidian throne, sat King Darius Ironheart—his broad frame wrapped in age, his gaze sharp as winter steel. Beside him, resplendent in richly trimmed armor, stood Crown Prince Garron—Alric's elder brother, the favored heir, his presence shining like sunlight in a storm.
The chatter of the court died.
Alric entered with measured steps, neither hurrying nor bowing low. The red wolf sigil burned against the gray of his leathers. Battle scars, not jewels or ribbons, decorated his strong hands. He stopped before the dais and raised his chin, just enough to meet his father's gaze.
Before the king could speak, a voice rang out to Alric's left—smooth, sharp, and lined with practiced amusement.
"Still refusing to clean the dust from your boots before walking into royal memory?"
Crown Prince Garron, dressed in deep navy and gold, stood at ease beside the throne, a goblet in hand and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Or is mud the only courtly fashion in the East these days?"
A few nobles chuckled—quietly, carefully. They watched the second prince.
Alric didn't glance at his brother.
"Some of us choose to earn our ground," he answered, voice steady. His tone held no heat—just steel.
"Others wait for cushions to be placed beneath their feet."
Garron let out a soft laugh, swirling his wine. "Oh, come now, brother. Must you always stomp about like an unwashed soldier? You represent our house, not your war camp."
Alric turned his gaze to him at last—calm, unreadable.
"I do represent our house." He paused. "That's why I returned standing."
The court's murmuring went silent.
Garron's smirk faded ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing just as King Darius raised a hand to speak—cutting the moment sharp and clean.
King Darius lowered his hand, and the tension in the throne room drew tight as a bowstring. His eyes shifted between his sons, weighing the edge in their words.
"Enough," the king declared, voice low but powerful. "This is not the time for brothers to sharpen knives with their tongues. The realm has eyes upon you both—not for jest, but for judgment."
Alric inclined his head a fraction, accepting the rebuke in silence. Garron's smile returned, but it was thinner than before, his fingers drumming softly on his goblet(wine cup).
The king's stare lingered on Alric for a moment, then rose to address the court, his words tumbling like iron across the hall.
King Darius leaned forward slightly on the obsidian throne, his voice lowered but no less powerful.
"My sons," he began, "Our kingdom does not survive on strength alone, but on what gives us the right to lead — birth, duty, and the will to serve more than ourselves."
The murmurs in the court dwindled to nothing. Every ear bent toward the king.
"Today, I end your waiting."
He looked first to Garron, then to Alric.
"By right of birth, before gods and nobles alike, I name Crown Prince Garron as my successor — the true heir to Ameranthia's throne."
Gasps and murmurs fluttered through the throne room like startled birds. Garron bowed deeply, a practiced smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Alric stood motionless—expression unreadable.
King Darius continued, voice steady:
"Garron was born of Lady Elenya, my wedded queen, blessed with noble Linear blood stretching back to the founding houses. He was brought into this world beneath the banners of law and legacy."
The king's eyes shifted briefly—heavier now—as they met Alric's.
"Alric, my son... born of fire and loyalty. Your mother, Seraya of Delmourn, was no queen by title, but she had the heart of one. She stood beside me in war when many turned away. You carry valor in your blood—but not the line that binds this throne."
The words echoed like iron hammering down stone.
Garron turned slightly, just enough to cast a sideways glance toward Alric.
"I remain your commander, Father," Alric replied quietly, his voice calm, yet colder than before. "Whether I wear your crown or carry your blade... I do not forget what I am."
The king regarded his second son for a long, thoughtful moment—nostalgic, maybe even regretful—but unmoved.
"And I do not forget what you've done. But a kingdom must rest on laws, not sentiment."
Garron stepped forward to formally kneel. "I will serve Ameranthia faithfully, as I've been raised to."
Alric didn't move.
His posture remained upright. In his stillness, there was no defiance—only restraint.
The king gestured, concluding the decree.
"Let it be recorded. Crown Prince Garron will inherit the throne. Until that day comes, our kingdom must remain whole. I expect obedience from both of you—and strength, where this land needs it most."
Scribes etched the words in ink. Nobles bowed. Some barely hid their approval. Others watched Alric with furrowed brows and whispered caution.
As the ceremony ended, the two brothers stood on either side of the throne—one lifted higher by blood, the other darkened by bonds no crown could break.