The rhythmic clacking of their boots against the cobblestones faded into the background as Elric watched Herschel's silhouette from behind. The Prince was currently gesturing wildly while telling Verona some exaggerated story, his laughter bright and effortless. It was a sound Elric had heard for nearly two decades, a sound that always preceded some form of spectacular trouble.
As he walked, the festive lights of the Capital seemed to bleed away, replaced by the memory of a much colder, much harsher sun.
Twelve Years Ago
Elric, only seven years old and already standing with a posture as rigid as a spear, stood beside his father, Duke Calixto.
"Elric," Calixto had said, his voice a low rumble. "This is the Third Prince of the Empire. You are to be his sparring partner while the King and I discuss the border treaties. Do not shame our name."
