Far away, deep within the continent of men...
The palace stood at the very heart of the capital, carved from white stone and adorned with intricate bas-reliefs depicting the great battles of old. Massive gates, guarded by armored sentinels bearing long halberds, barred entry to all but the most privileged. Inside, the soaring ceilings were crowned by immense crystal chandeliers, while the walls were draped with tapestries that wove the proud history of humankind into every thread.
Within the palace, many grand halls unfolded:
The Throne Room — a vast chamber where a throne of gold and crimson velvet reigned supreme.
The Library — an endless vault of ancient wisdom, its shelves burdened with the weight of a thousand dusty tomes.
The Banquet Hall — a place of celebration and diplomacy, its mirrors and towering columns reflecting laughter, music, and whispered plots.
The Royal Chambers — private quarters perched high above the city, offering a view fit for gods.
Encircling the palace sprawled the noble district — manors with lush gardens tended by the tireless hands of servants. Beyond that, the artisans' quarter buzzed with life: armorers, jewelers, tailors — all crafting the wonders of civilization. At the heart of it all lay the Central Market, alive with merchants hawking goods from every corner of the continent.
But farther still, hidden in the city's shadow, lay the quarter of the poor — a tangle of wooden shanties, narrow alleys, and the ceaseless clamor and stench of survival. Here, uprisings were not rare, and when they came, the king's guards answered with iron and fire.
The Throne Room, the heart of the palace, pulsed with grandeur. Glittering chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, scattering the glow of a thousand candles into a warm, golden haze. The walls bore tapestries of ancient conquests, while mighty columns, each carved into the likeness of legendary heroes, stood sentinel over the gathering. The very air trembled with ceremony, and everyone present felt the weight of history pressing down upon them.
The King rose from his throne.
He was a broad-shouldered man, streaks of silver glinting in his hair — marks of years spent wrestling with the burdens of crown and sword. His eyes were deep and piercing, sweeping across the hall with the heavy gaze of a man who had seen too much. Leaning on a massive golden scepter crowned with a sapphire, the symbol of wisdom and authority, he strode forward.
"Friends, allies, royal houses of all races — welcome to the heart of my realm. Today, we gather to chart our future together, to seek unity in a world too long overshadowed by curse and chaos. But before we begin, let me present to you what is dearest to me — my daughter."
He lifted his hand in solemn invitation.
The great doors of the hall swung open with a sonorous groan.
And there she stood.
She was beauty given flesh, as if plucked from the verses of a thousand poets. Her face was a masterpiece of grace — high cheekbones, tender lips shaped by a sculptor's perfect hand. Her large, dark eyes shone like precious stones, glimmering with youthful vitality and a wisdom beyond her years.
Her hair — a cascade of dark silk — tumbled down her shoulders and back, catching the candlelight in waves of silver and shadow. The gown she wore was artistry itself: silk the color of a star-drenched night sky clung to her slender frame, embroidered with golden thread that curled into ancient, rune-like patterns. A delicate neckline hinted at elegance without surrendering to vanity, while gemstones sewn into the fabric across her shoulders twinkled like captured constellations.
Around her neck, a fine gold chain cradled a single emerald, shaped like a tear, pulsing faintly with a life of its own, as if it beat in time with her heart. She carried herself with quiet pride, each step a dance of effortless grace. Her smile was so slight that it could almost be missed — and yet it was enough to steal the breath from all who saw her.
The hall fell silent, breathless.
Even the hardest hearts, tempered by war and treachery, could not help but marvel at her. She was a reminder, wrought by the hand of nature itself, that there was still beauty in a broken world.
The King spoke again, his voice carrying the weight of dreams and fears:
"She is the future of our kingdom — perhaps of all our world. Tonight, we must find the path that binds our peoples together for the good of all. But first, noble guests, present yourselves."
One by one, representatives of the royal houses stepped forward.
First came the dwarves and the dvergar. Their leader, a stocky man with a glorious red beard adorned with silver rings, strode proudly into the center of the room. His armor gleamed like fire under the candlelight.
"Your Majesty," he thundered, his voice rough as stone, "we are the masters of the forge. Our forges never sleep. We can arm your house with the finest blades and strongest armor, and bring forth treasures beyond counting from the bones of the earth."
And in the King's mind, a quiet thought stirred:
The dwarves and the dvergar... they are true masters of metal. Their swords and armor are wonders, able to withstand any blow. Their treasures would fill the royal coffers a thousandfold.
But could they protect my daughter from the curse that looms over this world?
Next, the elves stepped forward.
Their prince was tall and slender, with flowing white hair and deep green eyes that seemed to see through time itself. His voice was like music, smooth and measured:
"Our people are the keepers of knowledge and magic. We offer you our wisdom, our finest warriors, archers, and mages — to aid you in your battle against the darkness."
The King thought to himself:
Elves... their wisdom and magic are forces that defy the ages. But their pride... it runs too deep. Could they ever see humans as equals?
Then came the representative of the demons.
His presence was both menacing and elegant — fiery eyes, raven-black hair, and a dark cloak that billowed behind him like a living shadow. His voice was low and persuasive:
"My people offer you the alchemy to heal your wounds, the weapons to tame any beast. We can change the course of any battle — if you have the courage to accept it."
The King mused:
Demons... Their alchemy and mastery over beasts are powers beyond price. But their tie to darkness has always been perilous. Can they truly be trusted?
And finally, the orcs stepped into the center.
Their leader was a giant of a creature, gray-skinned and tusked, his voice as rough and solid as a mountain:
"We are the orcs. Our strength is the might of the body — no wall can stand against it. We've claimed a piece of your world already, and now we offer you our strength to share."
The King thought grimly:
Orcs... A danger — and yet, perhaps, a necessary one. Their brute power could crush any enemy. But will that same strength one day turn against us?
Thus, one by one, the envoys of the races stood before the King, each flaunting their finest virtues, each seeking not just an alliance, but the hand and beauty of his daughter, hoping to claim her as a prize for their people.
Meanwhile, in the minds of the orcs, a very different conversation was raging:
"Elves... those thin-skinned grasshoppers! Dancing around with their little bows like maidens with feathers. What can they do? Heal flowers while real warriors bleed in battle! And demons? Ha! Those horned tricksters would burn their own houses down if it made them a profit. Their potions? I drank one once — spent three days shitting lava! And dwarves, with their tiny stubby fingers... good only for digging holes, not for fighting. They dare call themselves smiths? Orcs forge swords that crush enemies with a single blow, while their axes are barely good enough for chopping firewood!"
The elves, in turn, had no kinder thoughts:
"Orcs? Primitive beasts, waving iron sticks and howling like madmen. They consume more than they produce, and their stench... gods, it's unbearable! Dwarves are little gnomes with oversized egos. Toss them a gold coin and they'll sell their own grandfathers. And demons? Liars and schemers! Even in our centuries of life, we can't fathom how these creatures still draw breath. Always brewing some foul plot in their dark laboratories."
The dwarves had their share of grumbling too:
"Elves? Pompous, pointy-eared dandies who wouldn't know a hammer if it smashed their pretty little toes. They spend more time admiring themselves than doing anything useful. Orcs? Walking piles of muscle with chicken-sized brains! Good for swinging a club, maybe. And demons? Trust a horned snake? Never. Their cunning plans are good for one thing — cleaning the sewers with their so-called 'alchemy'!"
And the demons, as ever, saw the world through cynical eyes:
"Dwarves? Greedy little rats! I once saw one haggle over a copper coin as if it were a diamond. Orcs? Blunt instruments. They win battles and lose wars without even noticing. And elves... oh, the elegant hypocrites. They preach about purity while hiring others to do their dirty work. Their 'great deeds' are always polished lies wrapped in poetry."
And what of their opinions about the princess?
The orc leader grunted to himself:
"A princess? Hah! Where's her muscle? Where's the strength in those arms? And her breasts... smaller than apples! Her hips? What hips? Nothing to grab, nothing to carry! And her manners — she talks like she's some wise seer, but we orcs like our women to roar loud enough to shake the mountains!"
The elven prince mused coldly:
"A princess? No, merely a human girl without grace. Her movements are clumsy, her skin poorly tended. Still... there's a certain charm if she keeps her mouth shut."
The dwarven envoy snorted under his breath:
"What's with this princess? She looks at us as if we're children, yet it's we who hold true wisdom. Her golden crown is the only thing worth looking at. She can't even stand tall like a real queen should. As for her... assets? Bah. No complaints from dwarves, but still — she barely understands what it means to wear a crown."
The demon whispered to his companion with a cruel smirk:
"A princess? Too pure — painfully pure. She radiates innocence like a torch in the dark. Her thoughts are shallow; she can't even bluff. Her gaze tries to feign confidence but only reveals her fear. I see nothing but weakness."
And finally, the princess's own thoughts, veiled behind her polite smile:
"And here I am again, surrounded by these 'wonderful' suitors... Dwarves? Yes, they'll bring heaps of gold, but their beards alone are enough to suffocate me. Honestly, how do they breathe under all that? Elves? Oh, how they adore themselves! I swear, they even envy their own reflections. Demons? Their endless scheming exhausts me. They see me not as a person, but as a pawn. And the orcs... their eyes barely reach my face before wandering elsewhere. They look at me as if I were too small, too weak for their tribes.
But what are they all really? Puppets in my father's court. And me?
I'm just here... waiting. Bored to death."
The princess found herself alone once again, lost in her thoughts.
Bitterness tightened around her heart, but deep inside, a small flame of hope still burned, warming her soul against the cold weight of reality. She allowed herself, just for a moment, to close her eyes and imagine a different world...
A world of eternal peace.
In her dreams, it was a true paradise — a world without wars, betrayal, or scheming.
Humans, elves, dwarves, demons, orcs, beastfolk, even the undead — all living in harmony, each fulfilling their role with pride and purpose. Towering cities, born from the combined genius of dwarven builders and elven architects, gleamed under the sun. Their spires reached toward the heavens, and the streets beneath were so smooth and strong they seemed woven from strands of light.
Beyond the great cities, vast villages of beastfolk thrived, caring for the lush forests and sacred lands that were their home. They lived side by side with others, guarding the natural world and enriching it.
The demons, once infamous for their schemes, had found a new purpose — masters of alchemy and discovery, crafting miracles that served all races. Even the undead had a place: their tireless strength and unwavering loyalty made them natural guardians and builders of new realms.
And above this whole world stood a ruler.
But not just a king.
A symbol of unity, strength, and wisdom.
In her mind's eye, the perfect ruler was a being who carried the finest qualities of every race.
Her vision of the ideal ruler:
He possessed the raw strength of an orc — the kind of strength that could break any wall — tempered by the wisdom to know when not to use it. His body was powerful, unyielding, yet his movements were as fluid and precise as any elf's. His eyes shone with the timeless wisdom of the dwarves, capable of solving any puzzle, any crisis. His voice — deep, melodic — could soothe anger, bridge divides, and even silence the scheming whispers of demons.
His soul was pure, like the first snowfall.
He understood the pain and the joys of all races.
He could approach an undead without fear or disgust, inspiring gratitude instead of terror. To the beastfolk, he was a protector of their freedom and traditions. To the demons, a master strategist they could finally respect. To the elves, a living embodiment of beauty and nobility.
And still... he would be human.
A man who had not forgotten how to dream — or how to love.
He would not be cold and aloof like the elven princes, nor brutish like the orcish chiefs.
He would speak plainly, with honesty shining from his eyes, and his hands would be strong enough to catch you when you fell, warm enough to calm your fears.
Her secret dream:
Deep within her heart, the princess saw him as someone who would come from beyond, a man not born from any courtly intrigue.
She imagined the moment he would walk through the great doors of the throne room — not with pride, not with arrogance — but simply, calmly, standing before them all.
And everyone would know without a word: He is the one.
She pictured his face — confident but kind.
His figure — tall, powerful.
But it was his gaze that mattered most: a fire that could not be described, a force that promised peace yet stirred awe in every soul.
He would be the one to build a new world — a world without war, without sorrow.
Even though she knew it was only a dream, her heart trembled with longing for the day it might come true.
She never spoke of it — not to her father, not to anyone.
It was her secret, her only true hope for the future.
Until then... she hid her dream behind the mask of indifference and sarcasm she wore at every royal gathering, enduring the endless parade of suitors.
Meanwhile, somewhere far from palaces and dreams, Kano — unaware that someone somewhere dreamed of him — was sitting in a tavern, quietly enjoying a bowl of soup.
Or at least, he was until he suddenly choked, coughing violently.
Elghot, seated beside him, casually patted his back and, with a wry smile, said:
"Someone must be thinking about you."
Kano, catching his breath, shot the mage a sideways glance, paused, and muttered:
"Yeah... my destiny."
Back in the palace, tension crackled like lightning through the grand hall.
Generals of the human armies and the envoys of other races sat on opposite sides of the massive table that stretched the length of the room.
It was a powder keg, and one spark would be enough to set it off.
"I tell you — it's your elven sorcerers who brought this curse upon us!" roared the human general, slamming his fist down so hard that the table shuddered.
"All you care about are your damned forests! Have you ever thought about the people you claim to protect?"
An elf, his features fine and sharp, lifted his voice — cold as steel:
"The curse came from you, humans, and your insatiable greed! You ravage the earth for your empires and gold! We are the stewards of this world — not its destroyers!"
"Destroyers?!"
The dwarven envoy barked, slamming his own fist down.
"It's we dwarves who build your cities and your forges, while you prattle on about your 'noble duties'! Elves, you're too proud to even face the truth!"
"Watch your tongue, runt!"
An orc growled, pushing himself up from his seat.
"You think your dainty swords are better than the strength of my people? We survived where your polished armor rusted away in the rain!"
The elf, pale with rage, snapped back:
"Brute! How dare you insult our craft? Your so-called strength is nothing but savagery! You destroy more than you build!"
It was the final spark.
The orc lunged, landing a heavy blow that sent the elf sprawling into the dwarven envoy, who shouted in outrage.
The room erupted into chaos — shouting, accusations, fists flying, furniture splintering.
Demons and humans joined in, trading curses and blows alike.
Amid the roar of chaos, a voice like thunder shattered the air:
"ENOUGH!"
The King's command slammed into the hall with the force of a hammer.
Kairion rose from his throne — a figure of unyielding authority — and his gaze, sharp as a drawn blade, swept across the hall.
Everyone froze, the weight of his power pressing them into silence.
"What is this madness?!" the King's voice cracked across the hall, sharper than a whip.
"You think this is some coliseum arena?!"
His gaze swept over the room — furious yet commanding, a voice that even in anger carried the full weight of a king's authority.
The chaos stilled.
Breaths were caught, fists lowered.
And then, from somewhere among the assembly, a whisper:
"The princess... Where is the princess?"
The King's face darkened.
He turned sharply toward the balcony.
In the fury of the brawl, no one had noticed her slip away.
But there, outside in the cool air, she stood — a lone figure against the sky.
She lifted her hand and whistled three times.
From the heavens, a mighty griffon descended — her griffon, the same one she had saved as a child when cruel workers' children had beaten the fledgling creature.
She had tamed him, secretly riding him whenever she dared, flying free above the chains of court life.
Now she climbed onto his broad back.
With a beat of massive wings, they soared into the sky.
She was flying toward the distant lands — the unclaimed continent, the wild expanse where no king ruled, no banners flew.
She dreamed of finding peace there.
She dreamed of proving that she could be more than a daughter waiting to be traded like a piece on a chessboard.
Inside the throne room, the fighting had died, but the tension remained — sharp and crackling.
The demon envoy, a sly smirk curling his lips, stepped forward and called out loudly:
"Kairion Estelaris! This was your plan all along! You set us against each other! If war comes, it will be on your head!"
The King listened in silence, his gaze growing colder, more piercing with every word.
When he spoke, his voice was like stone grinding against steel:
"Hear my will and my decree.
Whoever finds my daughter and brings her home — shall have her hand and become my son-in-law."
He turned his steely gaze on the demon and added, his voice a blade in the air:
"And you — hold your tongue while you still have it."
The King took a long, heavy breath.
His face bore the weight of fear and sorrow, but his voice never wavered:
"Enough for today. Leave."
One by one, in grim silence, the envoys withdrew — each carrying away their own doubts, suspicions, and brooding schemes.
Only the King remained, standing alone in the great hall.
His heart clenched with fear for his daughter.
And his eyes... his eyes strained toward the horizon, as if, by sheer will alone, he could see her soaring among the clouds.