In the heart of the Herion Kingdom stood the grand palace of Solara, its golden spires piercing the sky like the fingers of men reaching toward the gods they once feared.
It was a marvel of early human civilization, a city not born from divine decree but from mortal will.
Its people, once scattered tribes surviving in caves and thatched huts, now walked paved streets with pride in their hearts and steel in their hands.
At the center of the palace, within a marble hall illuminated by stained glass depicting humanity's rise, Herios sat upon his throne.
Draped in a crimson mantle trimmed with lion fur, his bronze armor gleamed with a subtle warmth that came not from polish but from the sacred fire Prometheus had gifted him.
His crown, forged by the finest smiths of the realm, bore no jewels—only a band of black iron taken from the ruins of the first monster nest they had ever destroyed.
Before him, in the high-vaulted chamber, a scout knelt.
