Five months ago, in the crisp dawn of a spring morning, Solvane stood on the training grounds of the Asperion palace, a figure radiating both grace and menace. The air was cool, laced with the scent of dew-soaked grass and blooming wildflowers, and the rising sun cast long shadows across the packed earth. Solvane's light-blue armor gleamed softly, catching the morning light with a gentle, almost ethereal glow, as if crafted from the sky itself. His golden hair, tied back into a simple knot, shimmered like spun gold, though a few rebellious strands slipped free, framing his sharp, angular face. His eyes, a piercing blue, were calm yet intense, capable of seeing through lies and bravado with unnerving clarity. They were the eyes of a prince—magnificent, dangerous, and unforgettable.
His physique was lean and wiry, built for speed and precision rather than brute force. Every movement was fluid, deliberate, as if he were a dancer performing a deadly choreography. His features bore the unmistakable mark of royalty: a strong, sculpted jaw, high cheekbones, and a noble bearing that seemed both regal and untouchable. With his golden fur subtly visible beneath the armor's edges and his striking eyes, Solvane was the embodiment of Asperion's royal lineage—a prince who commanded attention without ever raising his voice.
In his hand, he wielded a sword unlike any other. The blade was thin and delicate, like the wing of a cicada, glowing faintly with a golden light that pulsed softly, as if alive. The hilt was adorned with intricate jasper markings, elegant yet lethal, curling around the grip like vines of fire. This was no ordinary weapon forged from steel; its core was carved from the bones of a Popyl, a creature as rare as it was terrifying. Popyls were monstrous hybrids—part lion, part deer, part dragon—with scales coated in a deadly poison that could fell a warrior with a single scratch. Some grew as tall as cranes, their antlered heads towering over battlefields; others were as heavy as wagons, their clawed feet shaking the earth. All were nearly impossible to kill, their bones stronger than any metal yet light as a feather. Such a weapon was a treasure reserved for kings and princes, a symbol of power and lineage. And Solvane wielded it with an ease that bordered on supernatural.
That day, the training grounds buzzed with energy as Solvane sparred with a group of young men, all skilled warriors in their own right, handpicked from the kingdom's finest families. They were his peers in age but not in ability. No matter how fiercely they attacked—swords flashing, footwork precise—not one could land a blow on the prince. Their blades met only air or the unyielding edge of his Popyl-bone sword, which seemed to hum with a life of its own. Whispers rippled through the onlookers, some attributing his prowess to the legendary weapon, its golden glow catching their eyes like a beacon. But those who knew him best, who had seen him train since childhood, understood the truth: it wasn't the sword that made him unbeatable. It was Solvane himself.
Even as he danced through the sparring matches, his movements were restrained, his strikes measured. He was holding back, and everyone knew it. If he unleashed his full strength, none of his opponents would walk away unscathed. One boy, a brash young noble named Torren, learned this lesson the hard way. After only five strikes, Solvane disarmed him with a flick of his wrist, sending Torren's sword spinning across the dirt. The prince followed with a swift, controlled kick to the legs, dropping Torren to the ground in a heap. The boy's face flushed red with shame and pain as he scrambled to his knees, his legs trembling beneath him.
"You think you're strong?" Torren spat, his pride wounded more than his body. He glared up at Solvane, defiance warring with embarrassment. "Then fight Walden, if you dare!"
At the mention of the name, a hush fell over the training grounds. The other young men froze, their eyes darting between Torren and Solvane. Walden was a name that carried weight—a legendsry character just older than solvane with a couple of years, and more seasoned, whose reputation as a formidable fighter was whispered in every tavern and barracks across Asperion. Solvane's clear blue eyes brightened with interest, a spark of curiosity igniting in their depths. "Walden?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with an unmistakable edge of excitement, like a predator catching the scent of worthy prey.
Torren's bravado faltered as he realized what he'd done. The weight of Solvane's title, his presence, crashed over him like a wave. His face paled, fear rushing into his features as he dropped fully to his knees, head bowed low. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," he stammered, his voice trembling. "I spoke without thinking. I meant no disrespect."
Solvane tilted his head, studying the boy with a faint, amused smile. "Nonsense," he said, his tone light but firm as he extended a hand, gesturing for Torren to rise. "Stand. I take no offense. In fact, you've sparked my curiosity." He sheathed his sword with a fluid motion, the golden blade sliding into its scabbard with a soft hum. "Let us meet this Walden. If he's as skilled as you claim, I'd like to test my blade against his."
The other trainees exchanged uneasy glances, unsure whether to admire the prince's boldness or fear for his safety. Walden was no mere sparring partner; he was a force of nature, a warrior whose name alone could quiet a room. Yet Solvane's expression remained unshaken, his posture relaxed but ready, as if the challenge were just another step in a dance he'd already mastered.
As the group dispersed to prepare for the potential duel, Solvane's thoughts drifted briefly to the Timepiece, tucked securely in a hidden pocket of his armor. Five months ago, he hadn't yet faced Roxanne's wrath or heard the relic's faint click in the woods. But even then, he'd felt the weight of his destiny pressing down on him—a prince born to wield power, yet constantly tested by those who doubted his worth. His golden fur, his rapid healing, his unmatched skill with the Popyl-bone sword—all were gifts of his lineage, but also burdens. And now, the prospect of facing Walden stirred something deep within him, a hunger to prove himself not just as a prince, but as a warrior.
Filin, watching from the sidelines, leaned against a wooden post, his weathered face unreadable. He'd seen Solvane spar countless times, had witnessed the boy's growth from a reckless child into a formidable heir. But something about this moment—the mention of Walden, the glint in Solvane's eyes—made the old man's fingers "Careful, lad," he muttered under his breath, too low for anyone to hear. "Not every challenge is what it seems."
Solvane, oblivious to Filin's quiet warning, adjusted his armor and stepped toward the center of the training grounds, his sword at his side and a spark of anticipation in his heart.