7 March 1445, Kingdom of Andalusia
The war had left the enemy kingdom fractured, its coffers drained and its people wearied. Though smoke no longer clung to the air, yet the memory of fire and blood seemed etched into every stone of the capital. However, Kingdom of Andalusia, In the palace halls where banners hung with proud colors. Victory had come.
The King of Andalusia sat upon his throne, He did not fidget nor soften his posture with ease. He sat rigid, spine straight, hands resting on the arms of the chair — motionless, deliberate. The hall itself seemed to bend toward his stillness, courtiers whispering in tones barely louder than a breath, as though one careless word might draw his stern gaze.
Into this silence, Lord Ewan Witherell stepped. His boots struck the marbled floor with deliberate rhythm, His hair was black as dark as midnight, framing a sharply face. His eyes blue like the deep ocean, fathomless, concealing currents that no one could read.
He bowed once, precise and measured, neither too low to show over-submission nor too shallow to offend the grace. In that gesture, he declared himself loyal, yet unbroken. For him, the victory was hollow. His father had fallen in the war, leaving the house of Witherell in his brother's hand.
The King's pale eyes swept the entire hall before settling again on the young lord. " Lord Witherell, your service has not escaped my notice. Speaking of courage. . . and commitment. Andalusia rewards such things. "
Then royal guards stepped forward and brought a young lady before the throne. Lady Alicia de Beaumanoir. Her fire-kissed hair gleamed even under the hall's torchlight, and her emerald eyes shines, bright and unyielding. She is the last member of house Beaumanoir, a noble house from the enemy kingdom of Andalusia which fell apart in the war. .
" Lord Witherell. . . you will marry Lady Alicia de Beaumanoir. Through this union, you shall legitimize the realm's claim on her lands. In return, I shall raise you to the rank of Marquess. This is for the crown, for power, for the realm. . . "
The King paused, letting the words hang in the air, then coughed — a dry sound that drew every eye in the hall to him. his gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, then turned slowly back to Ewan. His lips curved into a thin smile and his voice carried a twisted amusement " She is the last of her line. . . Your action isn't it? "
A dry, echoing laugh followed his words, cutting through the stunned silence of the hall. Courtiers gasped and murmured. some paled, others exchanged horrified glances to ward the young lord.
When Ewan finally spoke, his voice was calm, controlled, yet carried an uncertainly feels " I gladly accept, For the honor of my house and for Andalusia. Your grace. "
A spark of ambition flickered in his heart. The rank, power, influence, lands, and the sway over lesser nobles was no small reward. He imagined the possibilities — a seat at the King's council, alliances with other great houses, the ability to strengthen the Witherell legacy far beyond what his father had left him and what his brother could do. .