Before the thick morning mist, Ravenmont Castle looms atop a series of rolling hills like a living portrait of power and tragedy. The ancient stone walls—handcrafted and worn smooth by countless generations—still bear the marks of long-forgotten weapons, medals, and symbols of a once-glorious dynasty.
Every stone and block of limestone carries the tale of noble knights, heroic battles, and the sorrow of oppressed people. The silence of early dawn is broken only by the wind whistling through narrow gaps in the massive gate, the measured footsteps of the guards, and the soft, almost inaudible sighs of lost souls from ages past.
In the grand hall of state, with its high vaulted ceiling and oil paintings depicting former kings, the courtiers kneel before King Alaric's iron throne. In hushed tones they murmur:
> "Your Majesty, it is said that King Alaric—once celebrated as a chivalrous knight—has now become a ruthless tyrant, turning past glories into a living nightmare for the common folk."
"Power has blinded him; his once–noble aspirations have been replaced by insatiable lust for wealth and debauchery."
For many years the people have known that beneath the dazzling veneer of past honor, scars of war and the terrible cost of absolute power are etched deep into every mortar joint of Ravenmont.
On his cold throne, King Alaric—his face rugged and scarred, his eyes as sharp and cold as a blade, and features that were once gilded with the radiance of honor—sits in silent contemplation. In the stillness of that somber space, the beat of his heart seems to echo in the corridors, and his inner monologue reveals a loneliness, a self-rejection, and doubts about the bygone days of renown:
"For years, I have conquered neighboring realms and led my armies through fierce battles. Yet now, my heart feels empty—as if the torch that once burned bright has been extinguished. Perhaps the price of power is the loss of faith and humanity."
The soft tolling of a distant bell, the echo of footsteps on polished stone, and the mingling scents of smoldering coal and aged damp create an atmosphere both solemn and foreboding—a fitting opening to a tragedy where light and darkness intertwine, and the suffering of souls becomes the canvas of the medieval age.