The banners of Everburn Castle snapped in the wind, their crimson sigils catching the afternoon sun. Lord Harriot rode at the head of his retinue, his great destrier stamping proudly beneath him. The journey had been long, but here, at st, stood the fortress of his future—both a symbol of power and a prize to be won.

  The castle itself loomed high above, a marvel of military engineering and regal authority. The thick stone walls spoke of unbreakable strength, while the towering keep exuded the weight of centuries of rule. As his party approached the grand gate, the sound of trumpets and drums filled the air. A royal welcome! The musicians, stationed atop the battlements, pyed a commanding rhythm—one that resonated through stone and soul alike.

  Harriot smiled. It was a good sign.

  The castle gates swung open, and the guards within snapped to attention. Their armor gleamed, their hands resting firmly on the hilts of their swords. Trained warriors, disciplined and unwavering. They knew who he was. They knew what he represented.

  As he passed through the outer yard, he caught the hushed voices of court attendants gathered near the entrance to the great hall. Their whispers carried his name, spoken with recognition, admiration.

  Then he saw her.

  Princess Everburn stood atop the steps leading into the great hall, framed against the towering stone of her ancestral home. To Lord Harriot, she was nothing short of resplendent—a goddess draped in crimson, her gown flowing like liquid fire, regal and untouchable. Her poise was effortless, her gaze cool yet piercing. In that instant, he felt it in his very bones—she was not merely a princess. She was a queen in the making. And soon, she would be his queen.

  With practiced ease, Lord Harriot dismounted. He removed his gloves and tucked them neatly into his belt before bowing—a perfect bance of respect and strength. He bowed to the princess first, his eyes lingering just long enough to acknowledge her beauty, before turning to the man who truly mattered.

  King Everburn had stepped into the courtyard, his presence alone commanding respect. The king’s voice was even, measured, the voice of a ruler who knew the weight of his words.

  Lord Harriot allowed himself a moment of pride. He had imagined this meeting many times on the road here, but reality was proving even greater than his expectations. His men, though road-weary, stood tall behind him, disciplined and steadfast.

  He had arrived. And when he left, it would be as master of this kingdom.