The Throne Hall was not merely a room; it was a colossal and suffocating monument to absolute power, amassed over centuries of tyranny. The ceiling was lost in a shroud of inky shadows, while thousands of candles in the great chandeliers wept tears of wax, casting reflections upon the marble floor that shimmered like pools of spilled blood and liquid gold. Along the walls, the portraits of ancient ancestors stared down with sovereign, glacial disdain, as if they were acknowledging not the boy, but the heavy mantle of destiny he now bore.
Viktor ascended the dais and took his seat. The throne—hewn from jagged black volcanic stone and rimmed with the shattered blades of fallen enemies—was a cold and unyielding master. The golden crown pressed against his brow with a weight that was not merely metal, but the crushing burden of a million suppressed breaths. The air in the hall was parched and opulent, thick with the scent of expensive incense, ancient parchment, and the metallic tang of unspoken terror.
The head servant glided toward him like a shadow and bowed low. His voice echoed through the high vaults, pouring into Viktor's ear like poisoned honey:
"Salutations, High Lord Victorius. The entirety of the valley is now your footstool. With a single breath, you may command the sun to rise or reduce entire dynasties to ash."
Viktor looked down at the hundreds of nobles kneeling before him. They looked like clockwork dolls dressed in gold, bending in perfect, soulless unison. But his mind was miles away from this gilded cage, lingering on the silk handkerchief rotting in the black mud. He had not dropped it by chance; he knew that in this palace, every wall had ears and every shadow possessed eyes. His father's mysterious demise, the fractured whispers of his final breath—everything had been woven into that scrap of fabric. By casting it out into the "filthy streets of freedom," he had placed his very fate into the hands of an unknown savior.
At that same heartbeat, within the wretched hovel in Solis Valley, time seemed to grind to a halt. As Lir carefully folded the silk, handling it as if it were a sacred relic, a silvery glint flashed from between its folds.
A small but heavy object struck the rotting wooden floor with a hollow thud. Lir retrieved it, his breath hitching. It was a silver key, ancient and strange, its surface etched not with mere patterns, but with a microscopic, intricate map. In the flickering candlelight, the key seemed to shiver with a glacial life of its own.
This was more than a key; it was a doorway into the darkest recesses of the Citadel, a harbinger of a tragedy that would soon weave Viktor and Lir's destinies into a single, unbreakable thread. Outside, the cannons continued to thunder in honor of the new Lord, but to Lir, the sound no longer felt like a celebration—it was the ominous herald of an approaching storm.