The Barnsley Empire was preparing for the greatest event in decades—the coronation of Prince Lane. The heir's eighteenth birthday marked not only his coming of age but also the beginning of a new era. Lane, a young man with intelligent but anxious eyes, could hardly bear the weight of brocaded robes and expectant gazes. He was more like a philosopher who had wandered into a warrior's body, and his soul was weighed down by the impending burden of the crown.

His father, King Emmanuel Barnsley, decided that peace would be the best beginning for his son's reign. After long and bloody years of war, he convened a diplomatic meeting with a neighboring kingdom—the Verdun Empire. Once romantically named Amour, with the rise of a new, ruthless emperor, it was renamed in honor of the brutal Verdun campaign, becoming a symbol of invincibility and military might.

The Verdun delegation entered the throne room, resplendent with gold and banners. Amid the steel armor and stern faces, Lane noticed one man. It was the knight Dorian. He stood not as a vassal, but as an equal, his back straight and his cold, searching gaze sweeping over the prince without a hint of servility. His face, framed by white hair, would have been beautiful if it hadn't been carved from ice. Lane, accustomed to flattery and fear in the eyes of those around him, felt a pang of interest. This knight despised him, and there was a strange honesty in that disdain.

That evening, before the crucial negotiations, a rebellion broke out in the castle. A carefully orchestrated chaos, designed to look like a treacherous Verdun attack. Fire, screams, and the clash of steel mingled in a hellish symphony. Lane, trying to reach his parents' chambers, ran through corridors that had become a battlefield. What he saw in the Small Throne Room broke his heart. His father and mother lay lifeless, surrounded by the bodies of Verdun diplomats and loyal servants. Everything had been orchestrated perfectly.

Lane fell to his knees, unable to utter a sound. The world narrowed to a crimson carpet and beloved faces frozen in horror. He didn't see a rebel emerge from behind a column with a bloody sword. The blow would have been inevitable if not for a shadow darting forward.

Steel met steel. Dorian, as if from nowhere, parried the blow and with one precise movement sent the attacker into oblivion. He offered no words of comfort. His hand grabbed Lane's shoulder roughly. "Move, Prince, if you wish to live," he growled, and there was not a shred of respect in his voice, only cold fury and purpose.

They fled the burning castle, leaving behind corpses, chaos, and Lane's future reduced to ashes. The first days in the forest were silent and tense. Dorian openly despised the "effeminate nobility" and saw Lane as nothing more than a duty, a living burden. Lane, lost in grief, responded with icy politeness.