The morning sun hung low over the quiet lake, its golden rays dancing across the water's surface, casting ripples of light that shimmered like scattered coins. Solvane, driven by a spark of curiosity that felt both reckless and exhilarating, trailed behind a group of young noblemen, their whispers buzzing like flies in his ears. They spoke in hushed, reverent tones about someone—a boy, they said, who could rival the crown prince himself, perhaps even surpass him. The notion was absurd, yet it tugged at Solvane's pride, urging him to see this supposed prodigy for himself. His golden fur, barely visible beneath his light training tunic, caught the sunlight as he moved, a subtle reminder of his royal lineage. His Popyl-bone sword hung at his side, its faint golden glow pulsing faintly, as if sensing the challenge ahead.
The group led him to the edge of the lake, where the air was cool and carried the faint scent of damp earth and wild mint. There, seated alone on a smooth boulder, was the boy in question. He was sharpening a sword with slow, deliberate strokes against a whetstone, his focus unbroken despite the approaching crowd. The blade was striking—half white, half black, its dual tones blending seamlessly into a one-handed weapon that looked both elegant and deadly. Unlike Solvane's heavier Popyl-bone sword, crafted for two-handed precision, this blade was built for speed and finesse, a perfect extension of its wielder's skill.
The boy glanced briefly at the group, his eyes flicking over them with casual indifference before returning to his task. He didn't so much as pause his sharpening, the rhythmic scrape of steel on stone filling the air like a quiet challenge.
"Emm… Walden," one of the boys stammered, his voice quivering with nerves as he stepped forward. He was a lanky youth, his face pale with the weight of addressing someone so formidable in the presence of the crown prince. "Didn't you see the prince?"
Walden hummed, a low, nonchalant sound, his hands never faltering as the whetstone glided along the blade's edge. "I did," he replied, his voice calm and unbothered, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than acknowledging royalty.
The boy's eyes widened, panic creeping into his expression. "Then why aren't you greeting him—" he began, his voice rising in pitch, only to be cut off as Solvane raised a hand, his gesture firm but gentle, signaling that formalities weren't necessary.
The group fell silent, their collective breath held as they watched the scene unfold. To ignore protocol in the presence of the crown prince was unthinkable, a breach that could earn a reprimand—or worse. Yet Solvane's attention was fixed on the boy by the lake, curiosity overriding any sense of offense.
Walden rose smoothly from the boulder, his movements unhurried but precise, like a predator conserving energy for the right moment. As he stood, the sunlight revealed more of him: short, curly red hair that caught the light like a smoldering flame, a well-toned frame that spoke of disciplined training, and a face so sharp it could almost rival Solvane's own regal features—perhaps even surpass them in raw, effortless charm. He walked forward with a confidence that bordered on audacity but never quite crossed into arrogance, stopping a respectful distance before the crown prince.
"The name's Walden," he said boldly, extending a hand in a gesture so casual it sent a ripple of shock through the onlookers. "Nice to meet you, Your Majesty."
The other boys froze, their faces a mix of horror and disbelief. What are you doing?! their wide eyes seemed to scream. To act so informally before the crown prince, the heir to Asperion, was beyond comprehension. Hands should be clasped in respect, heads bowed, titles recited with precision. Yet Walden stood there, hand outstretched, a faint, carefree smile playing on his lips as if he were greeting a friend at a tavern.
Solvane stared at him, his piercing blue eyes taking in every detail. Walden's demeanor was refined, yet there was something untamed about it, a wildness that defied the rigid etiquette of the court. His smile was disarming, not mocking, but free in a way Solvane rarely saw in the palace's stifling halls. And then Solvane noticed his eyes—deep, fathomless pupils that shimmered with an otherworldly light, like twin stars glowing in a night sky, surrounded by faint specks that seemed to pulse with quiet power. God's Eyes, Solvane recalled, the kingdom's whispered name for them. The rare mark of a warrior destined for greatness, or so the legends claimed.
For the first time in his life, Solvane felt something shift within him. Standing before Walden, he wasn't the crown prince, weighed down by endless morning routines, grueling training sessions, or the suffocating expectations of courtly etiquette. There were no tutors droning about history, no advisors scrutinizing his every move, no guards trailing his steps. In this moment, by the quiet lake, they were just two boys—equals, unbound by titles or expectations. The weight of his crown, his golden fur, his rapid healing—all faded into the background, leaving only the thrill of a new challenge and the promise of camaraderie.
A slow, genuine smile tugged at Solvane's lips, softening the sharp edges of his royal demeanor. He closed his eyes briefly, as if savoring the moment, then reached out and clasped Walden's hand in a firm shake, his grip steady but warm. "I am known as the crown prince," he said softly, his voice carrying a rare warmth, "but you can call me Solvane".