The soft rays of sunlight filtered through the window, gently falling on K.J.'s face as he slept, gradually stirring him awake. Blinking against the morning light, he remembered—today was the day. The day the guard would come to take him to the castle. His heart raced a little with nervous anticipation, but after a deep breath, he gathered his strength and rolled out of bed.

His clothes, laid out neatly the night before, were waiting for him. He opened the dresser to grab a fresh pair of braies and slowly dressed, pulling on his brown tunic, slacks, and well-worn high boots. The weight of the day ahead settled in his chest, but he squared his shoulders and prepared himself.

Just as he finished dressing, he felt a faint vibration through the wooden floorboards, a subtle thud that told him someone was at the front door. Curious, he peered out from his room's doorway and down the stairs. He watched as William opened the front door to reveal a soldier standing tall in crimson armor, holding a spear with authority.

"I'm here to collect K.J. Sharpe," the guard said, his voice firm but polite.

William nodded. "Sir, he's just finishing up—give me a second." He glanced over his shoulder, ready to call for K.J., but stopped when he saw him already standing halfway down the stairs.

"Ah, I was just about to call on you!" William chuckled, relieved to see his nephew ready.

K.J. offered a small smile and nodded in response.

The guard looked at K.J. with a respectful nod. "Mr. Sharpe, I've come to escort you to the castle. Commander Ryan will meet with you first to get you situated." His tone was formal but not unkind.

With a quick glance back at William, K.J. stepped forward, feeling the nervous flutter settle deep in his stomach. This was it—the moment he'd been waiting for. He said a silent goodbye to the quiet life he knew, though part of him still clung to the uncertainty of what was to come.

K.J. left the house, walking alongside the guard. Each step felt heavier than the last as if the weight of his future rested on his shoulders. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breath, unsure of what awaited him at the castle.

After a short walk, they arrived at the towering castle gates, which were ornate and impressive. The grand Phoenix crest of the Stark family loomed above the entrance, a symbol of power and legacy. The gate was heavily guarded, soldiers standing at attention, their crimson armor gleaming in the sunlight. The sight was both intimidating and awe-inspiring.

K.J. paused for a moment, staring up at the crest as the gates began to swing open.

The Stark family's fortress dominated the landscape, stretching for miles around with thick stone walls that looked like they had withstood centuries of war and weather. The castle itself was a testament to the family's power—imposing and impenetrable, with battlements that ran along the top like the teeth of a giant beast.

Massive, square towers rose at each corner of the structure, their dark, jagged stone contrasting with the shimmering banners of the Stark family crest—a blazing phoenix encircled by flames—fluttering in the wind. The central keep stood taller than all else, its spires clawing at the sky as if to touch the heavens. Each window was narrow and arched, giving the appearance of watchful eyes constantly surveying the land.

The guard led K.J. to the right, away from the main entrance, through a smaller gate set into another stone wall. As they passed through, K.J. found himself in a training yard, alive with activity. Rows of swords, lances, spears, and bows were neatly arranged along the perimeter, close to the high stone walls. Several dummy targets stood in formation, worn from years of practice strikes. Off to the side, an archery range caught K.J.'s attention. A large wooden target was mounted on an easel, its surface marked with thick concentric rings, leading to a bold bullseye in the center. The outer rings were faded from weather and repeated strikes, but the target was well-used, each line visible under the sunlight.

As they walked along the curved path, K.J. took in the soundscape around him. The clash of swords, the grunts of sparring soldiers, and the rhythmic hum of metal against metal filled his good ear, vibrating through the ground beneath his feet. He could feel the intensity of the training yard, alive with the pulse of warriors honing their skills. Just before they reached the side door of the castle, K.J. heard the sharp whistle of an arrow slicing through the air, followed by the soft thud of it embedding itself into the target.

They arrived at a wooden door nestled along the castle's side, near several scattered tables piled with crates, canisters, and boxes. As the guard opened the door, a wave of rich aromas washed over them—sweet, salty, and spicy scents filled the air, coming from a large kitchen bustling with activity.

The guard turned to K.J. as they entered. "You'll be entering through this side door most of the time. The front entrance has been..." He hesitated, searching for the right words.

Before he could continue, a young woman in the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, turned from her work with a raised eyebrow. Her sharp voice cut in, interrupting. "What he means to say is, the front door's busted. Prince's courier was a fool tried to poison Prince's tea and escape to the front door and well... let's just say the Prince took care of him. Brought the whole ceiling down right on top of him. That's why the door's blocked now." She shrugged as if it were no big deal.

The guard sighed deeply. "Mallory..." he said, half in frustration, half in defeat.

"What?" she replied with a smirk. "He's gonna find out anyway."

The guard gave a small shake of his head before turning back to K.J. "We don't want to overwhelm you with unnecessary details just yet. Besides, it's nothing to worry about." His tone tried to be reassuring, but K.J. could feel the tension beneath his words.

K.J. stood awkwardly, watching their banter unfold. They reminded him of a married couple, bickering but clearly comfortable with one another. His suspicion was confirmed when Mallory turned to him with a smile. "I'm Mallory, by the way. And this charming dum-dum is my husband, Linston." She extended a flour-dusted hand for him to shake.

K.J. grinned, appreciating the lightheartedness despite the strange circumstances, and shook her hand.

Linston gestured toward another door with a soft wave. "Come on, Mr. Sharpe, this way."

K.J. followed Linston through the next door and stepped into a breathtaking sight—the castle's grand marble lobby. The sheer grandeur of it made him stop in his tracks. The ceilings soared high above, supported by towering columns made of white marble streaked with veins of gold. The vastness of the space was matched by its beauty, with crystal chandeliers hanging overhead, their lights casting a warm, radiant glow throughout the room.

The floor beneath K.J.'s feet was a pristine black and white marble arranged in intricate geometric patterns that seemed to stretch endlessly. The marble gleamed under the chandelier's light, and the sound of his boots clicking against it felt almost too loud in the stillness. The room was lined with large doors, each adorned with golden lion-head handles, their jaws clamped around ornate rings. Every detail spoke of wealth and power.

Along the walls, tapestries woven in rich reds and fiery oranges depicted scenes from the Stark family's history—grand battles, royal ceremonies, and tales of heroism. The vivid colors brought warmth to the otherwise cold stone, filling the space with a sense of tradition and legacy.

As K.J. looked around, his gaze fell on the grand front doors, now blocked by massive chunks of stone. The remains of the ceiling had caved in, sealing the entrance completely. Scattered debris littered the floor, and as he looked up, he spotted a large and dark scorch mark on the ceiling above. Even now, small embers flickered in the aftermath of whatever magic or power had been used. Clearly, something—or someone—had met a swift and violent end here.

K.J. swallowed, his unease growing as he took in the sight of the destruction.

A light tap on K.J.'s shoulder caused him to turn, meeting Linston's steady gaze. Behind Linston, a set of twin staircases curved gracefully up from both sides of the room, converging on a landing where massive golden and crimson doors loomed at the top. Their ornate design glimmered in the soft light of the chandeliers, a symbol of power and grandeur. Between the staircases, at the base of the landing, was a large door, far less decorative but no less significant. This was where they were heading.

Linston moved forward, pushing the door open with a low creak of the hinges. As the door swung inward, the sound of muffled voices drifted through the air, growing louder with every step. K.J. could hear the distinct rise and fall of heated debate, the tone sharp and argumentative. He leaned slightly to peer past Linston's shoulder and saw, from a distance, five men gathered around a large table. Even from hundreds of feet away, their tense body language was clear—something serious was being discussed. It appears that this room may have been utilized as a war hall.

As K.J. and Linston walked closer, the voices sharpened, becoming clearer with each step. K.J. could make out fragments of the argument—a clash of opinions about strategies, borders, and risks. The table they surrounded was massive, its surface dominated by a sprawling, intricate, and detailed map of Gaia. Several markers were positioned at various locations, signifying key points of interest.

Seated at the head of the table was a much older man, his face lined with age and wisdom. A golden crown rested atop his silver hair, marking him as King Stark, the ruler of Astria and the surrounding lands. Despite the heated discussion swirling around him, the king sat in his ornate chair with a calm demeanor, his eyes keen as he listened to the others argue. He appeared to be observing, taking in every word without yet offering his own opinion.

K.J.'s gaze shifted to one of the men standing closest to the table—Ryan Guzman, the towering figure of the High Commander. His armor gleamed in the light, the Phoenix crest of the Stark family clearly visible on his chest. He stood over the map, pointing at a specific country as he spoke, his voice strong but measured. K.J. couldn't make out the details of what Ryan was saying, but the tension in his stance suggested the weight of the matter at hand.

The other men around the table were strangers to K.J., their faces unfamiliar, but they all wore expressions of concern and determination. One figure, however, remained partially obscured, standing just behind Ryan. This figure was cloaked in shadow, their features hidden from view, leaving K.J. to wonder who they were and what role they played in this tense gathering.

As K.J. and Linston approached the table, the sound of voices stopped, and all eyes turned toward them. The silence was sudden, the weight of attention falling on them like a heavy curtain. Linston cleared his throat before bowing deeply.

"Your Majesty..." Linston greeted the king respectfully, his voice low and reverent. The king acknowledged him with a small nod, his expression calm but curious. Linston then shifted his gaze slightly to the right. "Prince Oliver..." he added, his tone holding a touch more warmth.

At the mention of Prince Oliver, the figure behind Ryan stepped forward. Emerging from the shadows, a young man in his early twenties came into view—Prince Oliver Stark himself.

His hair was short, but it had a natural, unruly texture that made it appear slightly tousled, as though it had been ruffled by wind or a restless hand running through it one too many times. The strands were a warm brown, with just a hint of wave to them, giving his hair a subtle, unpolished look. It wasn't styled or particularly neat, but it seemed to suit him—a bit rough around the edges, like someone who didn't care much for keeping things in perfect order. It framed his face in a way that made him seem both approachable and hardened as if the wear and tear of life showed even in the way his hair resisted control. The slightly messy, laid-back style added to his rugged demeanor, complementing the quiet strength in his eyes and the marks of life etched into his face.

But it was the details around his eyes that truly drew attention. His left brow bore two small, red birthmarks, like tiny flames branded onto his skin since birth. They were subtle yet unmistakable, as if they held a meaning he didn't yet understand.

His eyes, a deep blue, were the most expressive part of his face. They carried a heaviness, a weariness that spoke of burdens carried silently. Though his brow furrowed just slightly, there was no sign of injury—just the marks of time and thought etched into his skin. His expression was one of contemplation as if caught in a moment between past struggles and future challenges. There was no immediate pain visible, only the subtle strength of someone who had faced hardship and learned to carry it quietly, marked by birth and life alike.

Prince Oliver moved gracefully around the table, his boots barely making a sound on the polished marble floor as he passed Ryan. Time seemed to slow for K.J; the world around him fell quiet as he took in every detail of the prince's presence. Oliver stopped about fifteen feet away, his gaze fixed on K.J., but K.J.'s attention was momentarily drawn to the prince's attire.

Oliver's wardrobe was unlike anything K.J. had ever seen up close. The man's attire is a masterpiece of dark elegance and refined power, every piece carefully chosen to convey a sense of nobility, authority, and mystery. The first thing that catches the eye is the long, black leather coat that flows dramatically down to his ankles. The coat is crafted from high-quality leather with a subtle sheen that gives it a polished, almost regal appearance. Its wide collar flares out slightly, adding a touch of drama to the overall look, almost like a cloak of authority draped over his shoulders. The coat's fit is structured but not overly tight, allowing it to move with a fluid grace as he walks, the fabric sweeping behind him like the shadow of his presence.

His vest is a deep crimson red, made from what looks like rich velvet or silk, its texture catching the light in soft, luxurious folds. The vest is detailed with golden buttons that run down the center, gleaming against the deep red fabric. The buttons are not just functional but decorative, each one engraved with a faint pattern that suggests royal lineage or an ancient family crest. The vest is snugly tailored, fitting perfectly to his form, and the contrast between its vibrant red and the darkness of his coat creates a striking, commanding presence.

Beneath the vest, his shirt is a solid black, buttoned all the way up to the neck without a tie or embellishment. The simplicity of the black shirt highlights the luxuriousness of the vest, creating a sharp contrast between the layers of his outfit. The black shirt's material is smooth and clean, likely made from fine fabric, offering a touch of understated elegance that complements the richness of the vest.

His belt, made of finely tooled leather, was adorned with intricate metalwork, and from it hung a sword, its hilt etched with the same Phoenix emblem. The pommel was polished silver, matching the sword's overall regal design. His boots, made of supple black leather, were fastened with golden buckles, their shine speaking of careful craftsmanship.

His pants are also black, slim-fitting, and impeccably tailored, continuing the sleek silhouette created by the long coat. They're made from a fine material that moves with him effortlessly, balancing the formality of his upper attire with the practicality of movement. The pants tuck neatly into tall black boots, which are sturdy and made from fine leather, completing the ensemble with a sense of durability and readiness.

The boots themselves are practical yet stylish, designed for someone who must navigate both the refined halls of power and the rougher paths outside. They're not overly ornate but are clearly made with the same attention to detail as the rest of his outfit, their polished black surface glinting subtly as he walks.

Overall, his attire blends the noble with the practical, a balance between refinement and readiness. The crimson vest against the black coat suggests both wealth and power, while the long coat and boots hint at someone prepared for more than just royal duties. He wears his clothes not just as a display of status but as armor, each piece carefully selected to convey authority, elegance, and an air of danger. The whole outfit seems to tell a story of a man used to walking the line between courtly sophistication and something far darker.

But it wasn't just his clothes that struck K.J.—it was the way Oliver carried himself. The prince moved with a quiet authority, his posture straight and his steps measured. His eyes, a sharp and piercing green, seemed to see right through K.J., full of intelligence and understanding. Despite his regal appearance, there was a weight behind his gaze, a heaviness that hinted at the responsibilities and burdens that came with his title.

K.J. could feel his pulse quicken, not out of fear but out of a sense of awe and uncertainty. He had never been this close to royalty before, and now he stood in front of the man who would shape his own future and that of the entire kingdom.

K.J. bowed low, his movements precise but tense, then straightened himself, his eyes rising to meet Prince Oliver's soft, inquisitive gaze. The Prince stood a few inches taller, his posture relaxed yet commanding. K.J., standing at five feet eleven, felt the subtle weight of the height difference but maintained his composure, careful not to reveal his discomfort.

Oliver tilted his head slightly, curiosity dancing in his eyes as he examined K.J.'s stance. There was a wariness about him—arms crossed tightly over his chest, shoulders slightly hunched as though trying to shrink away from attention. "Is this the one you mentioned, Commander?" Oliver asked, his voice smooth but edged with mild uncertainty.

Ryan, standing a step behind, gave a firm nod. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Oliver's gaze shifted back to K.J., lingering for a moment. "So, you're K.J.?" he asked, his tone casual but probing.

K.J. gave a curt nod, his expression carefully neutral.

A faint frown crossed Oliver's face, the lines of his brow deepening as he studied K.J. more intently. There was something unsettling about the silence, about the way K.J. carried himself, closed-off and unreadable. "He doesn't talk much, does he?" Oliver asked, glancing over at Ryan, his frown deepening into something more thoughtful.

Ryan stepped forward slightly, his voice steady. "He speaks, but only with those he trusts. And his hearing is limited, Your Majesty."

Oliver hummed softly, the sound a low vibration in his throat as he mulled over Ryan's words. His eyes flicked back to K.J., sharper now, as if trying to peel back the layers of his quiet demeanor. "You're the one they call 'Mute'?" he asked, his voice a touch too casual as if testing the waters.

A flicker of something passed through K.J.'s eyes—anger, hurt, or perhaps both—but he kept it hidden beneath a mask of indifference. The word stung, yet he remained composed, giving only another nod as if it didn't bother him.

Oliver's expression softened almost immediately, realizing the weight of his words. He took a breath, and the tension in his frame eased slightly. "My apologies," he said, his tone more genuine now. "That was wrong of me. I shouldn't have said that."

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck as if to shake off his frustration. "It's just... it hasn't been an easy week." He sighed, his eyes darkening with a hint of something personal. "My last courier tried to assassinate me. Slipped poison into my tea and almost got away with it. So, forgive me if I'm a little blunt or... off. I'm still recovering."

K.J. offered another nod, this one slower, more measured, as if acknowledging both the apology and the weight of Oliver's words. His eyes, though still quiet, seemed to soften just a little.

Oliver watched him for a moment longer, then began to walk a slow circle around K.J., his gaze sweeping over him from head to toe. He studied the broadness of K.J.'s shoulders, the way he carried himself despite the obvious discomfort of being observed. Something strong yet guarded about him made Oliver think he could be capable of far more than he let on.

"Mmm," Oliver murmured thoughtfully, his arms folding behind his back as he completed his circle. He paused in front of K.J. again, meeting his eyes with a newfound consideration. "You might just be the right fit for this job after all. But of course, on a trial basis."

K.J.'s lips curled into a quick grin, a flicker of relief passing over his face. For a brief moment, the tension he carried seemed to ease.

Oliver noticed the subtle shift in K.J.'s demeanor, but his focus remained steady. "Are you able to wield a weapon to defend yourself? Or to defend me?" he asked, his tone measured but direct.

K.J. nodded softly, his movements deliberate. He raised his index finger in a small, controlled motion, indicating that he was familiar with using one weapon, though his silence suggested he couldn't—or wouldn't—say which.

The gesture didn't faze Oliver. He observed K.J.'s response with mild curiosity but no alarm. His instincts had served him well thus far, and something about K.J.'s quiet resolve reassured him. Without hesitation, Oliver turned to Ryan. "Ryan, let's take him to the trainyard," he said, a note of anticipation creeping into his voice. "We'll see what weapon he can handle."

Ryan gave a sharp nod, already moving to obey the Prince's command.

Oliver, however, remained calm. He wasn't overly concerned about the prospect of K.J. posing a threat. After all, if it came down to it, Oliver had his magic—his most reliable means of defense, should history repeat itself and another courier try to betray him. But deep down, something in Oliver told him K.J. wasn't like the last one. His instincts, honed by years of being surrounded by deceit and loyalty in equal measure, whispered that K.J. could be trusted.

Ryan led K.J. through the narrow corridors of the palace, with Oliver trailing a few steps behind, his eyes fixed on the back of K.J.'s head. The trio passed through the grand kitchen, the scent of freshly baked bread and simmering stews wafting through the air, though none of them paid it any mind. Oliver's curiosity had taken hold, and his thoughts were entirely consumed by one question: what weapon was K.J. proficient with?

His mind raced with possibilities. Was it a blade? A bow? Perhaps something less conventional? K.J.'s quiet nature only deepened the mystery, and though Oliver trusted his instincts, he couldn't help but wonder about the silent man walking ahead of him. There was a certain calm to K.J., a self-assurance that Oliver found intriguing.

As they approached the trainyard, the clang of metal and the sound of soldiers sparring filled the air. Oliver's eyes narrowed slightly, his curiosity growing with each step. He had faced countless couriers, soldiers, and guards in his time—each had their own strengths and weaknesses—but something about K.J. made him different.

Oliver couldn't help but feel a growing sense of anticipation, eager to see what this reserved man was capable of. And though he wasn't the type to let his emotions show too easily, the thought of discovering K.J.'s hidden skill brought a faint, almost imperceptible smile to his lips.