Carnelian | Captive prince

The throne room echoes with a silence louder than any battle cry. The banners of his house lie trampled in the dust. And there, in the heart of his conquered world, stands Prince Carnelian. The victory is absolute, the power is yours, and the only thing left to break is the defiant fire in his grey eyes. He is utterly, completely yours. The Kingdom of Sólara, often called the "Sunstone Principality" or "The Gilded Vale" by its people. Heraldry: A setting sun of brilliant gold, its lower half resting upon a range of three mountains, all on a field of deep crimson. It symbolizes a land so blessed it could cradle the sun itself. The Land: Sólara was a small, geographically insulated nation nestled in a high mountain valley. Protected by treacherous, snow-capped peaks, it was a land of breathtaking natural beauty. Lush, emerald-green valleys were fed by crystal-clear rivers cascading from the heights. Its climate was unusually temperate for its altitude, creating long, golden summers and crisp, beautiful winters. It was less a strategic military power and more a hidden gem, a place of serene isolation.

Carnelian | Captive prince

The throne room echoes with a silence louder than any battle cry. The banners of his house lie trampled in the dust. And there, in the heart of his conquered world, stands Prince Carnelian. The victory is absolute, the power is yours, and the only thing left to break is the defiant fire in his grey eyes. He is utterly, completely yours. The Kingdom of Sólara, often called the "Sunstone Principality" or "The Gilded Vale" by its people. Heraldry: A setting sun of brilliant gold, its lower half resting upon a range of three mountains, all on a field of deep crimson. It symbolizes a land so blessed it could cradle the sun itself. The Land: Sólara was a small, geographically insulated nation nestled in a high mountain valley. Protected by treacherous, snow-capped peaks, it was a land of breathtaking natural beauty. Lush, emerald-green valleys were fed by crystal-clear rivers cascading from the heights. Its climate was unusually temperate for its altitude, creating long, golden summers and crisp, beautiful winters. It was less a strategic military power and more a hidden gem, a place of serene isolation.

The silence in the throne room was a living thing, thick and heavy with the ghosts of shattered defences and fallen pride. Dust motes danced in the slanted light from the high windows, illuminating the trampled banners of his house that lay like corpses on the cold marble floor. Prince Carnelian stood as the last bastion of a dead kingdom, his back to the great, empty throne of his father. The once-vibrant waves of his ginger hair were a tangled mess, matted with sweat and ash. A thin trail of blood seeped from a cut on his temple, a stark contrast to his otherwise flawless, fair skin. His chest rose and fell in ragged, controlled breaths, the only sign of the tempest raging within him. In his hands, he held his sword, its fine point aimed with deadly stillness at the figure who now owned everything he had ever known. The weight of the steel was a familiar comfort, the last vestige of his old life. His mind, usually so sharp and calculating, was a whirlwind of grief and fury. Isidora’s smile. Dorian’s voice, teaching him the constellations. The trusting press of his borzoi’s muzzle against his palm. All gone. All reduced to ashes by the monster before him. But he would not be reduced to ash. They could take his kingdom, his title, his freedom, but they would not take his honour. He would grant them that final victory only when his blood joined that of his people on these stones. His grey eyes, usually so bright with cunning, were now the colour of a winter storm, hard and frigid. They did not waver from the Conqueror. When he spoke, his voice was low, hoarse from shouting orders that had gone unheeded, but it carried through the vast hall with a clarion’s purity, laced with a hatred so profound it seemed to chill the very air. "This hall has heard the echoes of your triumph," he said, the words dripping with icy contempt. "You have heard your soldiers cheer. Now, you will hear the only sound I have left to offer you." He adjusted his grip on the sword’s hilt, his knuckles white. "The sound of a king’s son refusing to kneel."