[Rosen Vernasta.]
I was a prince.
A rightful heir to a kingdom that prided itself on strength.
And yet, if not for the interference of the Golden Authority, we would have lost everything.
I clicked my tongue in frustration, tying the knot of my silken white tie beneath the crisp collar of my shirt.
To add insult to injury, they didn't even return the lands they claimed, annexed, they said, for protection.
A justification I could understand, but it still stung.
I let out a slow breath and pressed a fine-toothed comb against my scalp, running it through my unruly hair.
It had grown too long, brushing past my ears in thick waves. I'd have to cut it soon.
I stood before the grand mirror that took up half the wall in my private chambers, the reflective glass framed by twisted golden vines and faded roses.
As I combed, I caught my own gaze, then immediately cringed.
Pride was a dangerous thing.
My hair, a dull golden brown with the hue of dried wheat, had finally been tamed into place.
My black eyes stared back, piercing and heavy, overshadowing my rough skin, weathered like fine-grain sandpaper, both in texture and tone.
It wasn't our fault, not truly.
My father had been too quick to ignite a war he couldn't finish, blinded by legacy and glory.
Fortunately, my mother realized the reality of the situation and negotiated terms before it was too late.
And now, the crown would pass to me.
King.
The word lingered in my mind like smoke in the lungs, thick, sharp, undeniable.
I straightened my cuffs, rolled my shoulders back, and stepped out of my chamber.
The hallway beyond was lined with golden sconces, flames flickering gently within crystal cages.
A thick red carpet stretched beneath my feet, muffling the sound of my footsteps as I made my way through the east wing of the royal castle.
Stained-glass windows cast fractured morning light across the floor, bathing the white marble pillars in soft hues of violet and rose.
As I passed, maids bowed in silence, their uniforms pristine and eyes lowered.
Knights in silver armor stood watch at each corridor intersection, their expressions stoic but aware.
I kept my head high. Not out of arrogance. But because I had to.
This castle, this throne, this kingdom, it all needed someone unshaken.
I crossed through the towering archway into the central hall, its high ceiling painted with scenes of triumph, battle, and divine judgment.
My footsteps echoed now, purposeful, heavy with what lay ahead.
At last, I arrived before the twin obsidian doors, each one etched with the seal of our house: a lion crowned in flame.
I paused for a moment.
Then I pushed the doors open.
The throne room was vast, cold, and still. The walls were carved from dark stone, trimmed with veins of blue crystal that shimmered faintly.
At the far end, beneath a canopy of twilight-colored velvet, sat the twin thrones.
My father stood tall before them, back straight despite the weight of age.
His once black hair had turned to steel-gray, combed neatly behind his crownless brow.
His military coat, black with crimson trim, hung over his broad frame like the memory of wars long past.
In his hands, he held the royal crown.
A heavy circlet of obsidian and silver, rimmed with pale diamonds and a single burning ruby at the center.
Each gem pulsed faintly with old mana. It wasn't just a symbol.
It was a relic, a conduit of kingship and command, passed down for generations.
And beside him stood my mother.
Graceful. Reserved. Her dress was sea-blue silk that flowed like water, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light.
Her dark hair was bound in a spiral braid, wrapped with threads of starlight.
Her expression was gentle yet sharp, watched me with the eyes of someone who had seen too many truths.
I stepped forward with a small smile.
The air in the throne room shifted.
It was thick with grandeur, charged with something ancient and vast, as though the world itself had paused to acknowledge my ascent.
My presence was no longer just that of a prince.
It had become something more. Something recognized. Something inevitable.
I stopped before them, before the throne, before my parents, before the weight of history, and knelt.
My father held the royal crown aloft, and as he began to speak, his voice echoed against the vaulted ceiling like a decree etched into the very stones.
"Heir to Fertical's pride and honor," he declared, "you shall lead our kingdom into salvation, a future where we stand unrivaled, where we are number one."
And then the crown came down.
It met my brow with chilling finality.
The weight was real. Not just metal and mana, but legacy. Command. Expectation.
And with it came the surge. Power. Not just magical, but conceptual, authority itself folding into me, wrapping itself around my identity.
"Rosen Vernasta, my son," my father continued, his voice laced with fire, "do you accept the role of king?"
I lifted my gaze, lips drawn into a tight line of purpose. "I accept."
It happened in a breath. A single, clandestine moment. And something awoke inside me.
Not pride. Not desire. Not duty. Something else.
Resolve.
A core of unshakable will crystallized within me, clear, cold, and quiet. It wasn't loud. It wasn't glorious. But it was absolute.
Then silence.
A blur of hands, voices, people. Applause? Chants? I couldn't tell. It all fell away like echoes lost in fog.
When I next drew a clear breath, I was back in my chambers, lying on my bed, crown in hand.
And I laughed.
Not out of joy, not madness. Something in between. A release. A realization.
This was it. The beginning.
In time, I would meet the King of Anstalionah.
I would see with my own eyes if he was worthy of holding the same title as me.
They said he was a fool. Vile.
But from what I had learned, how his kingdom thrived, the way his people whispered of mercy and strength, I doubted the rumors.
He intrigued me.
And that alone made him dangerous.
During my time away from the kingdom, exiled to the frozen expanse of the northern ice continent.
I survived on one thing alone: the perseverance etched into my heart.
I battled frost-breathing monsters, serpents that slithered beneath the snow, and birds that rained down hail like arrows from the sky.
Through it all, I found something.
A meaning.
A calling that carved itself into the very marrow of my being. I would meet my end one day, but not before doing everything in my power to prevent it.
I glanced down.
There, glowing faintly across my torso, was a mark: the image of a snow-warped leopard, etched into my skin with quiet authority.
It shimmered with a pale brown light, subtle and solemn, filling me with a cold, inward calm.
It was strange, this new power had awakened during something as trivial as a scouting mission.
I hadn't expected that.
What I sought on that mission was simple: to test the possibility of expansion, to see if the ice held secrets worth chasing.
And I had my answer.
It could be done. The land was harsh, but not unreachable.
It would take time. Preparation. Coordination. But I had already begun long before I took the crown.
And now that I am king? Now, it will be easy.
I will ensure Fertical never suffers another defeat. Not by sword, nor by scheme, nor by the mercy of another.
I vow it. With my heart, unshaken.