Marlon stepped out of the training hall, the scent of sweat and steel still clinging to his tunic. The cool air of the corridor greeted him like a whisper from the past as he entered a quiet chamber where time itself seemed to pause.
There, mounted on the stone wall, was a painting that had hung unchanged for over a decade: The Norse Genealogy. A tribute to the stalwart bloodline of Northem's defenders. It was more than just oil on canvas—it was history immortalized. Dozens of faces stared back at him —the great men of the House of Norse, each was a portrait of courage, of sacrifices made at the borders where kingdoms often bled. It was a wall of of honor to the Norse name, generals, warriors, legends.
His grandfather was the eldest in his generation and so was his father. The Norse ancestral manor belonged to them and he was the heir to this chamber. He was supposed to protect the legacy of the name.
He stepped closer, his chest rising with a shuddered breath.
