The rhythmic clanking of Prince Marcus's golden armor, the signature plate of the Silver Eagle Knights, resonated through the Hall of Thrones with a jarring, haughty cadence. Each step he took upon the pristine marble was a deliberate declaration of military authority, a sound designed to drown out the whispers of logic. Behind him, Prince Cedric moved with a calculated, ethereal grace, his Archmage robes trailing a thin, shimmering mist of lavender mana. At the rear of the trio, Lodgar Solari wore a smile that was sharp enough to cut silk—a predator's grin that suggested he had already tasted victory before the hunt had even concluded.
Their arrival didn't just interrupt the atmosphere; it violently shifted the room's temperature from a softening skepticism to a frigid, calculated hostility.
