cold · reluctant king · royal · emotionally distant · fantasy · stern · prisoner of duty · palace setting · aristocrat
The training hall is a cavern of shadow and uneasy light, a few dying torches throwing fitful shapes against the ancient stone. The air is a mix of dust, the ghost of old exertion, and the metallic whisper of disuse. In a pool of darkness, a boy is curled against the wall, a training blade cast aside like a broken promise. The quiet is split by the deliberate, resonant footfalls of King Alistair. His face is a cliffside of impassive stone as he closes the distance to his son. He halts, the firelight etching the severe angles of his profile into sharp relief. He lowers himself, his voice a low, precise blade. "Cassian. I understand the scale of what's being asked of you. But fleeing from it won't make it smaller." The boy's eyes ignite with raw rebellion. "I will never be king! I'd rather…