The throne room scented of burning cedar drifting through the air, softening the tension that always lingered in the presence of King Alaric. Lorin stood before him, head bowed slightly, the golden light from the tall windows tracing the edges of his armor.
Alaric's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he spoke.
"For the past few days you've stayed in this palace due to your current bond with the amulet," the King said, his tone measured yet kind. "But tell me, Lorin… do you not wish to return home? To your village?"
Lorin hesitated, his jaw tightening as a shadow crossed his face. "I… I have thought of it, Your Majesty. But I cannot go back."
Alaric's brow furrowed. "And why is that?"
"Because my destiny," Lorin said slowly, "is no longer there. It is tied to the Crimson Amulet. I cannot explain it fully, but… I feel it, deep within. Wherever the amulet goes, my path must follow."
The King studied him with quiet curiosity. "Tied to the amulet, you say…"
"Yes," Lorin replied, his eyes lowering. "I was once a blacksmith, sire. My parents were all I had, and they both passed when I was young. I worked day and night, shaping metal with no purpose — until the amulet came into my dreams. It gave my days meaning again. It showed me that even a man with nothing can be chosen for something greater."
For a long moment, Alaric said nothing. Then, rising from his throne, he placed a hand on Lorin's shoulder — a rare gesture of trust.
"Then stay," he said simply. "Serve not only as a guard, but as one who protects the bearer of the amulet itself. Perhaps your fate and hers are not so different."
Lorin bowed deeply. "I will not fail you, my King."
As he turned to leave, Alaric's voice echoed softly after him.
"Fate is a strange thing, Lorin. It binds us in ways we rarely understand. But remember — destiny is not given… it is earned."
As Lorin bowed and left the throne room, silence lingered for a breath before the heavy doors opened again. The rustle of robes and the steady tap of boots echoed through the hall — the royal council had arrived.
King Alaric straightened on his throne, his expression sharpening. "Councilors," he greeted, his voice carrying the calm authority of a ruler who had already faced too many dawns of bad news. "What brings you before me this early?"
Councilor Darven, the eldest among them, stepped forward with a bow. "Your Majesty, we come with urgent matters concerning the future of the kingdom — and of Princess Seraphina."
Kael's gaze narrowed slightly. "Go on."
"The people grow restless," Darven continued. "Rumors of growing dark magic spread beyond the borders, and the nobles grow uneasy. The council believes it is time to secure the kingdom's future — through alliance."
Alaric's hand stilled on the arm of his throne. "You mean marriage," he said flatly.
Darven exchanged glances with the others. "Yes, Your Majesty. The Princess's betrothal, have you forgotten. It could strengthen our political ties and bring stability to the realm. There are suitors—sons of powerful houses—awaiting your consent."
Alaric's jaw tightened. " I remember but Seraphina's heart is not a pawn for politics."
"Nor should it be, sire," another councilor added gently, "but the throne's survival may depend on it. Dark times approach, and the people must see unity and strength — not uncertainty."
For a long, heavy moment, Alaric said nothing. The torches flickered, casting long shadows across the marble floor.
Finally, he exhaled slowly. "I will think on it," he said. His tone was calm — but his eyes carried the storm.
As the council bowed and retreated from the chamber, Alaric's hand drifted to the window, his gaze turning toward the distant training grounds where Seraphina stood beneath the morning sun.
He whispered under his breath, more to himself than to the wind,
"She has her own destiny to fulfill… and I will not let politics decide it."