Galen and Magnus strode toward the main doors of the Solara Palace, the late afternoon sun catching on the polished armor of the Solara Knights standing guard. Their golden helms turned in sync, and as their eyes locked onto Galen, their stance shifted instantly.
"Prince Galen...?" one of the knights said, almost in disbelief, lowering his spear into a defensive posture. The others followed suit, weapons barring the way forward.
Galen stopped, hands still shoved deep in his coat pockets. His eyes, a glowing crimson hue, flicked lazily from one spear tip to the next. "Drop the 'Prince' crap," he said flatly. "I'm not here to waste energy on titles or childhood drama. Move."
One of the knights cleared his throat and stepped forward, his face tight with unease. "Forgive us, but... we can't let you pass. The King's orders were explicit—his son is not to step foot inside this kingdom again, let alone the palace."
Galen let out a long, tired sigh, like someone forced to sit through a boring lecture. "Then maybe someone should've told the outer gate guards," he muttered, "because I already stepped in—and I'd prefer not to make this louder than it needs to be. But I will."
Magnus, who had been casually admiring the arching windows and sun-etched murals above them, finally turned to the knights with a bright grin. "Look, you lot might remember him as the tantrum-throwing prince, but I grew up with him. Trust me—if he says he'll make his own way, I'd step aside now before you end up as wall décor."
The knights held their ground.
Another sigh escaped Galen, this one sharp with irritation. "Then I guess you'll be seeing a healer... once you're free to walk again."
Before the guards could react, a red-orange sigil blazed to life in the air before them—intricate, glowing lines pulsing with heat. In the next breath, it erupted with a controlled explosion, blasting the guards back and flinging the massive palace doors wide open.
Smoke drifted lazily through the air as the two walked forward. The guards lay scattered across the marble like broken dolls—not seriously injured, but dazed and groaning in pain.
Magnus passed by one of them and gave a teasing wink. "You'll be fine. Just ice your pride and maybe your ribs."
He jogged up to Galen, who was already striding down the ornate hallway, the red of his eyes reflecting off the golden walls.
"So," Magnus said, hands behind his head, "we bust down the front door of a royal palace—on purpose—what's next? Tea with Daddy Dearest?"
Galen didn't even look back. "If he serves fire, maybe."
Meanwhile, in the Courtroom of Solara Palace, a chamber with marble walls that etched in gold, with a throne raised on a high dais, shadows flickering from the crystal chandeliers above.
A man and a woman—dressed in fine but clearly middle-class noble attire—stood on opposite ends of the courtroom floor, their faces twisted in heated argument.
"That land's been in my family for three generations!" the noblewoman barked, her silver brooch glinting like her indignation.
"Your family rented it from my grandfather!" the man shot back, slamming his palm against the marble table. "The deed was never signed over!"
The squabble crackled louder with every breath, echoing through the long chamber until—
King Tharion Magna raised his hand with calm, yet overwhelming authority. His red eyes shimmered beneath a crown that looked more like a burden than a jewel. Time had tried to weather him, but it failed—his frame still strong, his voice still thunderous when needed.
The chamber fell into stillness, only the rustle of Queen Seralyne's silken gown whispering through the silence. She sat beside him, poised like frost given human form—her silver eyes scanning the pair with silent precision, white hair cascading like winter snow.
Tharion leaned forward. "I see all. I hear all. And from what I've gathered..." he let his words linger, "...the land will be shared. Equally. Final."
The two nobles blinked, expressions taut with disbelief.
"That's absurd," the woman muttered.
"I can't accept that," the man added.
Tharion's eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps I'll bestow the land to someone who values harmony over ego."
Both nobles stiffened, their spines snapping into place like twigs under pressure.
"Of course, Your Majesty," they echoed, bowing in perfect unison.
"Good," Tharion said with a slow nod. "Case closed—"
"Stop! You can't go in there!!!"
The voices were raised—urgent and frantic, coming from beyond the thick double doors of the courtroom. All eyes turned. Even the nobles paused mid-bow, heads tilted in confusion.
"What's happening?" murmured a court advisor.
The doors exploded inward in a controlled blast of smoke and embers. Figures at the table leapt to their feet, chairs scraping against the floor.
"Who dares attack the King and Queen!?" someone roared.
Through the smoke, a tall figure emerged—cool, calm, and unbothered.
Hands in his pockets. Red eyes flicking through the haze like a storm given shape.
"Those of you yelling," Galen said lazily, "...shut it. My ears work just fine."
Gasps broke through the chamber.
Seralyne's hand rose to her lips, a soft tremble in her fingers. "Galen...?" she whispered.
Tharion remained still. Cold and silent. But his eyes were locked on his son with razor clarity.
The court murmured, shocked beyond belief. Galen's presence alone was a storm. And still, with a single glance across the room, he picked apart the crowd.
His voice rang again, low but commanding.
"Everyone who doesn't belong here—leave. Now."
The two nobles, a few advisors, and random attendees met his gaze and froze—ice cold terror spreading through them like a plague. Whatever pride they had evaporated. They scrambled out, tripping over their fine robes.
Magnus waved lazily at them as they fled. "Run fast, little ducklings."
He shut the doors behind them with a click.
Only the major figures of the royal court remained. Every eye on Galen.
Finally, Tharion spoke, voice like stone grinding against steel. "Do you realize what you've done is considered treason?"
Galen didn't blink. "The information I brought will bury that word. Not that it mattered to me anyway."
Seralyne stood slowly, her voice cracking. "Galen..."
She stepped down from the throne, eyes glassy with tears as she moved toward him, arms open with trembling grace.
"I missed you," she whispered.
"I missed you too, Mother," Galen said, halting her with a gentle gesture. "But this isn't the time for warm hugs and old lullabies. I came for him."
He pointed his chin at Tharion.
Before the tension could settle, one of the nobles at the table shot to his feet. "How dare you speak to His Majesty that way?! You insult the blood of Solara!"
Galen turned his head slowly. His eyes, now glowing like simmering coals, fixed on the man.
"Sit down. And shut up," he said coolly. "Because if you don't—I'll burn it shut for you."
Magnus whistled. "Still got it."
Galen stepped forward, the room silent once more as he prepared to drop the real reason he'd stormed the palace.