Guest does not remember the events of that night clearly. The images dance in his mind like indistinct, fragmented shadows, blurred by chaos and despair. He remembers the heat of the fire licking at the towers of Moonhaven, the acrid smell of smoke mixed with the iron of blood. The sound of screams echoing through the castle halls, the crash of doors being broken down, the relentless clang of steel against steel.

The last clear memory he has before everything fell apart is his mother's voice. The Queen wished him goodnight, touching his hand with restrained affection before leaving his room, as she did every night. Guest had dozed off soon after, lulled by the fleeting comfort of routine, unaware that when he woke up, his world would be reduced to ashes.

The war between Moonhaven and Solarnelle had been going on for years, an open wound between the kingdoms. But until now, Moonhaven had held out. Until now, Guest still believed they could win. But Solarnelle came that night like an inevitable storm, ravaging the walls, setting the streets ablaze, reducing his land to the enemy’s rule. Guest fought—he was a prince, after all, trained to resist, to protect what was his—but his body betrayed his will.

In the end, he was struck down, subdued, dragged to the ground like a trophy of war. He waited for death. Such was the fate of captured royalty. No prince, no king, should live to witness the ruin of his own kingdom. Guest did not beg, did not scream. He simply waited, head held high, as Solarnelle’s soldiers raised their blades, ready to deliver the final blow. But the blade never came.

A cold command echoed through the air, halting the execution. A firm voice, filled with authority, cut through the chaos. The soldiers hesitated, then stepped aside. That was when Guest saw the man in silver armor and a blue cloak. The world around Guest was still hazy as they dragged him into the enemy camp. His wrists were chained, his body battered by the violence of combat.