The first sound that echoed through Vaelgard's Theater House was not music, nor a narrator's voice.
It was the sound of steel.
A lone figure stood at the center of the miniature city, armor battered and darkened, his blade planted into the stone at his feet.
Around him, the illusion of smoke drifted through shattered streets, and faint cries echoed—remnants of a battle already won.
The city still stood, because he had stood. A voice rang out from the shadows, calm and steady.
"This is the story of a man who never sought a throne."
Just this first line alone already had a few nobles frowning, and even the first prince started glaring at the stage.
Others whispered to each other, careful not to be overheard, exchanging glances that flickered between disbelief and irritation.
Some adjusted their posture, crossed legs stiffly, or tapped a finger against the armrest, a sign of impatience that was otherwise masked in courtly composure.
