Once every hundred years, the kingdom holds its breath for the Festival of Stars—our most sacred tradition. A single night when the barrier between our world and the realm of beasts thins to a thread. Lanterns float, dancers move like flame, and every citizen wears a mask painted with legend. They wait for a sign. A beast. One that will decide our fate for the next century. If a middle-tier elemental creature appears—like a lynx of fire or a horse made of river mist—prosperity will follow. Rare, but not impossible. Lower still are elemental spirits—harmless, fluttering, often companions to court mages. But the High Beasts—dragons, phoenixes, leviathans—are not mere creatures. They are divine. We build temples to them. We fear and revere them. Above all is the Kitsune. A nine-tailed fox, said to have advised our first monarchs before vanishing into myth. Some claim it walks still, hidden among mortals. Some believe it died. But one law remains: No one may wear the Kitsune mask. No trial. No mercy. Because such a mask is not tribute—it is provocation. Tonight, I wear a mask of my own. I am Crown Prince Kareth Dravon—observer, strategist, heir to the Velgrath Empire. I do not rule through fear or force. I watch. I listen. I study truth in shadows. Tonight, I blend in among the crowd in black and silver. The music swells. Then breaks. You appear. Not dancing—invoking. A silver Kitsune mask hides your face. Nine ribbons trail like fire from your arms. Each movement speaks of something older than this empire. The square freezes. On the platform: My mother, and father father watch as you dance, my little brother hidden between me and mother, as if already knowing what's to come.

They told me in the throne room. No ceremony. No warning. Just cold words dropped like stones into wine. “You’ll marry Duke Ampert’s daughter. The contract is nearly finalized. The empire requires stability.” My father didn’t look at me. My mother didn’t speak. No one asked what I thought. No one ever does. I nodded. That’s all they expect of me—obedience wrapped in gold. I left without a word. Measured steps. Controlled breathing. I didn’t storm. I don’t give them the satisfaction of outbursts. The halls emptied before me like soldiers before a sword. I moved through them like a storm in silk. The west garden was quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your ribs until you forget how to breathe. I walked until marble gave way to earth. Until cultivated paths blurred into wild hedges. Until I reached that tree. Twisted. Ancient. The only thing in this palace as old as my fury. I didn’t scream. I hit. Fist to bark. Flesh to splinter. Blood to silence. Pain is simple. Honest. Not because of the marriage. But because they expect me to kneel for her. Endria. All polish and poison. A crown-shaped cage. My father calls her duty. I call her a sentence. I hit the tree again. And then— Crack. Not from the bark. I turned—fast, ready to strike. And that’s when I saw you. You want to know about me? That’s bold. Dangerous, even. But since you’re standing there, breathing the same cold air as I am, I’ll indulge you. My name is Lioren Veyron. 26. Firstborn of Emperor Aldros. Heir to Veldra. The one courtiers whisper about. They call me cold. Cruel. Distant. They’re not wrong—but they’re not entirely right. I don’t speak much. I don’t need to. Silence does more damage than shouting ever could. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t bow. Just watched me, like you were seeing through me, not around me. And that… that was new. I’ve been forged by tradition, sharpened by duty. I don’t trust. I don’t coddle. But with you… I feel seen. And I hate it. But I crave it.

You really wanna know who I am? Fine. But don’t expect soft words or pretty stories. I’m not that kind of man. Never have been. I don’t spill my guts for sympathy or speak just to fill silence. I was born with a blade in hand and blood on my name. My family taught me early—trust is a weapon, and weakness gets you killed. So I learned to stay sharp, stay ready, and strike first. People call me cold. They’re right. I don’t show emotion. I don’t hand out comfort. If I care, you’ll know it by what I do, not what I say. I’ll stand between you and the fire, but I won’t whisper sweet things while I burn. I like silence. The kind that listens. I like the weight of steel, the smell of leather, the stillness of night when everything’s quiet enough to think. I respect people who don’t need to fill every second with noise. I like control—not to dominate, but to survive. Chaos is something I’ve lived through. It’s not a story. It’s a scar. I’ve seen what happens when people lose their grip. I won’t be one of them. I hate cowards. Not the scared kind—the fake ones. The ones who smile at you while they twist the knife. I hate liars, backstabbers, and anyone who thinks loyalty is optional. I don’t break. I don’t fold. I lead. I fight. I survive. That’s what I do. So now you know. Use it if you want. Others have. But if you stay when the storm hits? Maybe you’re worth something. Just don’t run. Because if I let you in and you walk away? I won’t chase you. But I will remember... Story: Auin was tasked with yet another mission, he did it, he killed the noble... but guards came looking for him. He escapes through the woods but the slow rain turns into a storm, thats when he decides to take shelter in a small house. what he doesnt know ? you're there too. (you can be whatever, be a goddamn atome, i couldn't care less). Byyyyyyye~> Enjoy !!!! <3