Today, joy echoed through every corner of Aetherlyn.
The streets were adorned with silk banners, flags fluttered from towers to the main gate.
People from all corners gathered, their faces alight with anticipation—
awaiting the royal procession that would follow the official coronation of the Crown Prince.
This was no mere royal festivity.
This was a day destined to be etched into the annals of Paragon.
A day when a name began to carve itself into the stone of time.
Kings from across the realms had arrived,
seated with grace upon their honorary thrones,
draped in regal robes, their eyes filled with watchful calculation.
They waited for two figures:
the Emperor… and the Heir,
the one who would become the center of all that was to come.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes,
royal attendants and court artisans worked in silence,
preparing Arion with meticulous care—
each strand of hair, each fold of his robe,
perfected to the last detail.
Today, he was no longer just a child of royalty.
Today, he was the symbol of the empire's future.
Then—the trumpets blared.
The first cannon blast thundered in the sky,
marking the arrival of a sacred moment.
A royal guard's voice echoed powerfully through the grand hall:
"All guests, please rise!
His Majesty, the Imperial King of Aetherlyn—The Lion, Balderick VII—enters the hall!"
The King's footsteps echoed along the length of the crimson carpet.
His posture was upright. His aura, commanding—his gaze emanated the gravitas of a true sovereign,
a strength not merely inherited, but forged through time and war.
"Long live the King! Glory to the Empire!"
The guards' voices thundered in unison,
reverberating through marble pillars and stained-glass ceilings.
Balderick VII sat upon his throne—
like an old lion, still king of the savanna.
But far above this grandeur…
in a lavish chamber where Arion was being readied,
a raven landed silently on the window ledge.
Its eyes were crimson. Its beak rasped a harsh, grating call,
shattering the stillness of the morning.
One attendant frowned.
"What is this bird doing here… as if the whole palace roof wasn't wide enough?"
With a huff, he shut the window in annoyance.
Yet none of them noticed—
the bird had not come by mistake.
It had come as an omen.
The second trumpet sounded. More cannon blasts followed.
Their echoes rumbled across the palace grounds,
announcing one thing:
The Crown Prince was about to enter the hall.
"Please rise!
Firstborn son of King Balderick VII!
The Prince of Light!
Crown Prince Arion Balderick VIII, Heir to the Throne of Aetherlyn—enters the chamber!"
And as the towering doors opened…
he appeared.
A seventeen-year-old young man,
his steps calm,
yet each stride struck the hearts of all who beheld him.
His silver hair gleamed beneath the crystal lights,
his sky-blue eyes—sharp yet gentle-held depths
the world had yet to comprehend.
Today, Arion was not merely handsome—he was radiant.
His presence merged with a grandeur
reserved only for those born to become legends.
Every gaze was locked upon him.
None dared to look away.
He glanced briefly toward his closest friend seated among the nobles—a hand raised in cheerful greeting,
and Arion returned it with a subtle smile and nod,
a gesture of friendship untouched by the weight of the crown.
But soon… his gaze turned forward once more.
High priests of Vasva, the empire's spiritual order, welcomed him solemnly,
guiding him to the seat of honor beside the Emperor's throne.
Then—the young princesses of the palace entered,
their dainty steps graceful,
bearing a golden box
within which rested the royal crown:
a radiant gem atop the authority of Aetherlyn.
One archbishop stood before Arion,
carrying two sacred relics:
a chalice—symbol of life and abundance,
and a silver dagger—emblem of courage and sacrifice.
"Today…"
his voice calm but resonant,
"The King of Light has blessed this choice.
The light shall continue to shine upon this realm through you.
And with this…
you, the Prince of Light, are hereby consecrated
as Crown Prince of Aetherlyn."
The crown was then placed upon Arion's head.
And the moment the sacred metal touched his silver hair—the trumpets blared louder than before.
Cannon fire followed,
roaring like divine thunder from the heavens.
The coronation was complete.
Outside the palace, cheers erupted, flooding the city.
The people welcomed it with shouts and tears of joy.
They knew—soon, the Crown Prince would descend to the streets.
The procession would begin.
And they would witness with their own eyes
the rising light that would lead them into the future.
Yet amidst all this grandeur,
none realized…