The soft hum of foghorns echoed through the early morning haze of San Francisco as Ethan Grayson stepped out of his two-story walk-up. A crisp breeze tugged at his jacket, the kind of chill that cut straight to the bone. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the corner café, mingling with the tang of salt carried by the bay winds. The city was waking—just another predictable day in a predictable life.

Ethan slipped his earbuds in, already longing to drown the world out with music. His morning ritual was simple: coffee, commute, survival. Stability was his currency; he had no interest in drama or surprises. His thumb hovered over the play button when a sleek black car, too expensive for this neighborhood, rolled silently to the curb.

The engine idled with a hum, its glossy surface catching the early morning light.

A prickling sensation crawled up his neck.

The driver's door opened. Then the passenger's.

Two men stepped out, their dark suits perfectly tailored. They moved in unison, like players in a carefully choreographed dance. One held a leather briefcase; the other kept his hands free, his fingers twitching as if ready for action.

"Mr. Grayson?"

Ethan's hand paused. He tugged out one earbud, suspicion tightening his jaw. "Yeah?"

The taller man stepped forward. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back, his expression polished and unreadable. "Conrad Voss," he said smoothly, offering a business card Ethan didn't reach for. "This is Mr. Patel. We represent the estate of your uncle, Baron Lucien von Arkel."

Ethan stared at him, trying to place the name. It was like hearing a tune you couldn't quite remember. "I think you've got the wrong guy. My uncle died when I was a kid."

Voss's thin smile didn't falter. "Your uncle passed away three days ago." His voice was calm, controlled. "You are his only living male relative."

"And…?"

"And his heir."

The word landed like a stone in Ethan's stomach. He blinked, his mind grappling for meaning. "Heir to what? Some antiques?"

Patel cleared his throat. His eyes—sharp, calculating—never left Ethan's face. "Not quite. You've inherited the title of Duke of Ovarn, as well as royal rights to the throne of Veldoria."

"The throne?"

"Yes."

Ethan let out a bark of laughter, sharp and disbelieving. "Is this some kind of prank? Did Mason put you up to this? Where's the camera?"

"This is no joke," Voss replied firmly. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers, each bearing intricate seals and signatures. "We have official documentation proving your lineage. Your claim is legitimate. Should you refuse, the title will pass to a distant cousin with... less noble intentions."

"I don't have intentions," Ethan muttered. "I don't even have a plan for lunch."

Patel stepped forward, his voice low but weighted with importance. "Veldoria is a nation scarred by decades of communist rule. It is a fragile place, rebuilding from the ground up. Your uncle saw the monarchy as a means of stability—trading oil for food, ensuring no citizen starved. But the future requires more. A true leader."

Ethan rubbed his temples. "Look, I'm a nobody. I can't even get my landlord to fix my radiator. Why would anyone trust me to run a country?"

Voss clasped his hands behind his back. "Because it's your birthright. And because the people of Veldoria believe in legacy. Bloodline carries weight."

"Bloodline," Ethan scoffed. He paced, the weight of the moment pressing down. "I'm nobody's savior. I'm not a king."

"Not yet."

He stopped, staring at Patel. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means kings are made, not born." Patel's expression softened slightly, a glimmer of something almost like empathy in his eyes. "You don't have to know everything today. You just have to choose."

Ethan felt the pull—of destiny, of something larger than himself—but fear clawed at the edges. He wasn't ready. He wasn't anyone.

"Give me a day," he whispered, voice thick with uncertainty.

Patel nodded once. "A day. But no more. Time waits for no man, Mr. Grayson. Especially not kings