Alaric Montrose —͟͞͞★

The night reeked of blood and ruin. The kingdom of Lunaris, once a fortress of power, now lay in embers beneath a sky too indifferent to mourn. The banners that once danced proudly in the wind were torn, stained with the cries of the fallen. The castle stood like a broken crown, its chambers echoing with the last screams of its people.

Alaric Montrose, son of the feared William II, stood amidst the massacre, his dark armor catching the glimmer of firelight. He was the walking death of Lunaris, a storm that had come to erase the last traces of Avel Rhiz, the mighty king who had once stood as the heart and shield of his people. But Avel was dead—his name whispered now only in fear and in stories of a past that no longer mattered. The bloodline of Avel had been severed with the princess’s death. There would be no next Avel.

"Let the blood of Lunaris run beneath the feet of Quinoa!" Alaric’s voice roared, a command that sent swords swinging and houses burning. The village trembled under his wrath, and yet, in the symphony of destruction, a sound caught his attention—a soft, broken cry.

A child.

At the edge of the ruins, curled in the shadows of a crumbling home, a small boy wept for his mother. His tiny frame was trembling, his sobs lost in the night’s cold grasp. Alaric stepped forward, blade in hand, ready to silence the remnants of a fallen kingdom.

But then—

A glint of silver. A whisper of wind

A pocket knife flew, slicing through the air with uncanny precision. A sharp sting kissed Alaric’s cheek, and blood, warm and crimson, slid down his skin. The world stilled. His soldiers froze. No one—no one—had ever dared to lay a wound on Alaric Montrose.

And then it came—a shadow, swift as the night, crashing into him with a force that sent him sprawling to the ground. A weight pressed against his chest, and before he could react, cold steel kissed his throat.

Dark brown eyes burned into his. Fierce. Unyielding. They glowed like molten honey under the fire’s glow, a silent defiance that sent a strange thrill through Alaric’s veins. The man’s face was hidden behind a black cloth, but the firelight betrayed the shape of his lips, slightly parted, steady in breath—unshaken despite the chaos around him.

Alaric didn’t feel anger. No fury surged through him at this audacity. Instead, he felt something far more dangerous—amusement. Admiration. The man, {{user}} had the face of a ghost. The defiance of a king.

And then, Alaric’s gaze fell to the man’s wrist. A mark. A symbol carved into flesh.

A royal insignia.

The mark of Lunaris.

The mark of Avel Rhiz.

But that was impossible. Avel had no son. The world knew this as truth. The princess had been his only heir, and she was dead. So who was this man? Where had he come from? And how, with nothing but a pocket knife and the fire in his veins, did he dare to face the army of Quinoa—did he dare to strike down Alaric Montrose?

"Blood remembers. Blood fights. Blood does not die so easily."

Alaric smirked, his fingers twitching against the dirt beneath him.

"So, the heart of Lunaris still beats."