The towering gates of the Royal Palace of Astria loomed before Squad Five like the maw of a sleeping dragon. Intricate carvings of flames and war adorned the massive obsidian doors, depicting the kingdom's long history of defiance against the gods. The palace itself was an architectural marvel-a blend of imposing military strength and refined elegance. Pillars of black stone stretched skyward, their tops wreathed in ethereal flames that cast an eerie glow across the entrance hall.
As the squad stepped through the grand halls, the oppressive heat was immediate, a subtle reminder of the power that flowed through the royal bloodline. The very walls radiated warmth, and crimson banners depicting the flaming sigil of Astria hung solemnly from the vaulted ceilings. The guards, clad in dark steel adorned with red-gold accents, stood motionless, their violet eyes glowing faintly beneath their helmets.
At the heart of the throne room sat King Ignis Astria, a figure of raw power and unshakable authority. His sleeveless crimson robe flowed down the obsidian steps of the throne, the exposed muscles of his arms rippling with latent strength. His fiery red hair cascaded down his broad shoulders, and his piercing orange eyes burned with intensity. Even in stillness, his presence was a suffocating predator at rest, his very existence radiating with heat and dominance. The air crackled around him, an unspoken warning to all who stood on the throne.
Bran and Commander Halden, standing at the front of the squad, knelt with practiced ease. "Your Majesty," he said, his voice firm yet respectful.
The king's voice, deep and commanding, echoed through the chamber like rolling thunder. "Rise. Let's begin." His gaze swept over the gathered squads, his eyes holding a fire that demanded respect and submission. "Captain Magnus of the Second Squad, explain the plan."
A tall, wiry man with slicked-back brown hair and a calculating gaze stepped forward. He wore a pristine white cloak lined with silver glyphs, denoting their expertise in ancient texts and battlefield analysis. Though they rarely fought directly, their intellect had turned the tide of many battles. "Your majesty, our target is the capital of Xenith, Draz'Zir. It's heavily fortified, and infiltration is our only option." His gaze swept across the squads. "To select the most capable operatives, a competition will be held. Each squad will send their finest to compete in the series of fights."
The king's voice cut through the air like a blade. "I will not tolerate failure. The chosen will carry the weight of this kingdom on their shoulders. You have two months to prepare." His gaze lingered on Squad Five as if measuring their worth. "Dismissed."
As Modred walked alone through the marble corridors of the palace, two figures blocked his path-Princess Seraphina Astria and Prince Kaelen Astria, the grandchildren of the king. Their matching crimson hair shimmered under the palace lights, and their striking orange eyes held a piercing, almost smug gleam.
"So, you're one of the expendables," Kaelen said with a smirk, arms crossed. "The ones who bleed while we reap the rewards."
Seraphina giggled, her voice sickly sweet. "All that sacrifice, and yet, you're still… beneath us."
Before they could react, Modred's hand shot forward, seizing them both by the throat and lifting them effortlessly. His crimson eyes darkened, black markings spreading faintly across his skin as tendrils of dark mana curled around him like living shadows.
"You don't know sacrifice," he whispered, his voice carrying a terrifying edge. "But speak like that again, and I'll show you what it truly means."
Seraphina's eyes widened in fear, her hands trembling against his grip. Kaelen, for all his bravado, could only gasp helplessly.
Releasing them, Modred turned without another word, disappearing into the palace's endless halls.
The following morning, Seraphina stubbornly sought Modred out, her usual playful demeanor subdued. She found him training alone in the palace courtyard, his sword slicing through the air with cold precision.
"Hey…. Modred?" Her voice was unusually soft.
He paused, giving her a sidelong glance but said nothing.
She fidgeted, her cheeks puffing in frustration before bowing deeply. "I… I wanted to say I'm sorry. What I said yesterday…. It was cruel. I didn't mean it."
Modred stared at her for a long moment before returning to his training. She pouted, stepping closer. "You could at least say something!"
"…. Noted," he muttered, continuing his drills.
The princess brightened instantly, her hands clasped together. "Great! Then, as an apology.. I'm taking you on a tour!" before he could protest, she grabbed his arm, pulling him through the palace grounds.
Despite himself, Modred allowed her to drag him along, her energy relentless. She showed him the grand gardens, filled with rare, luminescent flowers that pulsed with fiery light, and the grand libraries overflowing with ancient texts.
"You don't talk much, huh?" she said, skipping beside him.
"I prefer silence," he replied curtly.
She giggled, toggling him closer. "You're kind of scary, but… I think you're interesting."
As the day wound to an end, Seraphina leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his cheek, her face lighting up in a blush. "Thanks for indulging me, Mr. Grumpy."
Modred's face remained stoic, though his ears betrayed a pink hue.
That night, Bran gathered the squad in their quarters. "Listen up. The competition happens in two months. Modred, Fenrick, and Xeraniel, you're fighting. The rest of you just observe."
Xeraniel grinned. "Finally, something fun."
Fenrick cracked his knuckles. "Just point me to the punching bags."
Modred remained silent, his thoughts already on the battles to come.
The path ahead would be paved with blood and shadows, but for now, the countdown has begun.