Beyond the Capital Walls — The Ruins of the Ancient Tower
In a blink, a sword was taken off its scabbard and flashed. The masked man pivoted, drawing his blade with a silent grace honed by years of practice in the shadows. His cloak swirled like smoke around him, eyes cold beneath the mask.
A figure stepped from the underbrush and dropped to one knee and bowed.
"It's me, my Prince," said a deep voice — steady, but reverent.
The man knelt low, clad in a heavy black cloak, the hood hiding most of his rugged face. His build was formidable, a tower of muscle wrapped in the darkness of the night.
The masked man did not move for a breath. Then, slowly, he lowered his weapon and slid it back into its sheath.
"You startled me, Molavi. You can rise," he said quietly, his voice gravelled with fatigue and something deeper—sorrow. And how many times have I told you that I am no prince; I am your captain" He said in a firm tone.
