The Kingdom of Eryndor stretched across rolling hills, shadowed forests, and fortified towns, but beneath its proud banners of gold and crimson, unease lingered. The King, once fierce in battle, now sat weakened upon his throne, his breath shallow, his hand trembling when he raised his goblet. His knights still swore loyalty, and his nobles bowed with feigned reverence, yet whispers traveled faster than sermons: the realm was vulnerable.
Merchants in the markets spoke of famine in the east, soldiers at taverns muttered about unpaid wages, and priests warned that sin would bring ruin. But it was not famine or foreign foes that threatened Eryndor—it was the quiet storm brewing within the royal family itself.
The King's two sons were the heart of this storm. Prince Athelric, the elder, walked the halls like a man already crowned. His voice was loud, his gaze unflinching, his stride heavy with the confidence of destiny. He was the heir apparent, beloved by many knights for his skill with sword and spear. Yet his pride was a sharpened blade—dangerous to anyone who stood in his way.
Prince Caedmon, younger by three years, was no less skilled but altogether different. Where Athelric's fire drew men to him, Caedmon's quiet thoughtfulness unsettled them. He lingered in the library as often as in the training yard, listening more than he spoke, studying maps when others boasted of hunts. If Athelric was flame, Caedmon was water—patient, steady, and deep.
The King knew their rivalry was natural, yet he feared it would become fatal. And as the sun sank beyond Eryndor's western mountains, painting the sky in blood-red streaks, the old ruler felt the weight of fate pressing upon him. He wondered, not for the first time, whether the crown would strengthen his sons—or destroy them both.
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