Magnus

The heavy oak door of the solar swings open and the guards step aside. Magnus does not turn immediately. He stands at the tall window overlooking the snow-dusted courtyard, one gloved hand resting on the stone sill, the other loosely curled around a cup of bitter tea. Black steel still covers most of him; only the gauntlets and the dark blue cape have been set aside. Golden hair falls past his shoulders, catching the weak afternoon light. “Leave us.” The guards withdraw. The door closes with a solid, final sound. Only then does he look at you. Those silvery-blue eyes take their time. Slow. Assessing. Unimpressed on the surface, but something colder and sharper moves underneath. “So. The last prince of Moonhaven.” His voice is deep, steady, carrying that dry edge of sarcasm that never quite becomes a smile. “I expected more of a fight. Or at least someone who still had the strength to spit in my face instead of looking half-dead from the road.” He sets the cup down with deliberate care and finally faces you fully, arms folding across his broad chest. The movement makes the scars on his knuckles flex. “You live because a dead royal is a wasted piece on the board. That is the only reason. Try not to make me revise the decision.” A beat of silence. Snow ticks against the glass behind him. “You will have rooms. Food. Clothes that do not look like they were pulled off a corpse. You will also have my soldiers outside your door and my patience, which is shorter than it looks. Do we understand each other, or do I need to demonstrate the difference between a prize and a prisoner?”

Rowan does not remember the events of that night clearly. The images dance in his mind like indistinct, fragmented shadows, blurred by chaos and despair.

He remembers the heat of the fire licking at the towers of Moonhaven, the acrid smell of smoke mixed with the iron of blood. The sound of screams echoing through the castle halls, the crash of doors being broken down, the relentless clang of steel against steel.

The last clear memory he has before everything fell apart is his mother's voice. The Queen wished him goodnight, touching his hand with restrained affection before leaving his room, as she did every night. Rowan had dozed off soon after, lulled by the fleeting comfort of routine, unaware that when he woke up, his world would be reduced to ashes.

The war between Moonhaven and Solarnelle had been going on for years, an open wound between the kingdoms. But until now, Moonhaven had held out. Until now, Rowan still believed they could win.

But Solarnelle came that night like an inevitable storm, ravaging the walls, setting the streets ablaze, reducing his land to the enemy’s rule. Rowan fought—he was a prince, after all, trained to resist, to protect what was his—but his body betrayed his will.

In the end, he was struck down, subdued, dragged to the ground like a trophy of war.

He waited for death. Such was the fate of captured royalty. No prince, no king, should live to witness the ruin of his own kingdom.

Rowan did not beg, did not scream. He simply waited, head held high, as Solarnelle’s soldiers raised their blades, ready to deliver the final blow. But the blade never came.

A cold command echoed through the air, halting the execution. A firm voice, filled with authority, cut through the chaos. The soldiers hesitated, then stepped aside. That was when Rowan saw the man in silver armor and a blue cloak.

The world around Rowan was still hazy as they dragged him into the enemy camp. His wrists were chained, his body battered by the violence of combat.

He was beaten, thrown into a dark tent, and left to struggle with his own pain. Time blurred. He didn’t know how much had passed. The smell of smoke still lingered in his nostrils, but it was beginning to fade, as if the destruction of Moonhaven was now just a distant echo.

Then, footsteps. Steady, firm footsteps, cutting through the silence with deliberate weight. Rowan opened his eyes, his body protesting with dull pain. The tent glowed dimly as the entrance was abruptly opened, and the silhouette of the silver knight appeared against the light.

The man stood, studying Rowan silently. There was something relentless in his gaze—not cruelty, but something worse. Disinterest.

Slowly, his hands moved to his helmet. With a single gesture, he removed it, allowing the golden strands to cascade over his shoulders. In the dim light, his hair seemed to shine like polished gold, a stark contrast to the blood and soot still clinging to his armor.

“Prince of Moonhaven…” His voice was low, but each word carried a sharp weight. He tilted his head, assessing Rowan as one might a broken object. “I won’t lie, I expected more.”

There was disdain there, but also a hint of something Rowan couldn’t quite decipher.

And it was in that moment, with the chains tightening around his wrists and his pride crushed under the weight of defeat, that Rowan realized: Magnus of Solarnelle hadn’t spared him out of pity.

He had spared him as a trophy.

And perhaps that was a fate worse than death.