Percival the Second watched with a cold, uncaring glare as his son manifested a truly beautiful suit of pure golden armour out of thin air. However, he could not help but scoff at the three points that sprouted from the helmet's forehead, as if they were trying to resemble a child's drawing of a star.
A crown would be much more suitable for a true Monarch, but what could be expected of a boy who proudly called himself Prince instead of declaring himself King.
As the two armoured warriors charged forwards, meeting each other in the middle with a handshake of sharpened steel, Percival got his own handshake as he felt a small, cold blade pressing into his side.
He scoffed again, shaking his head in disappointment, and did not bother to turn around. He knew who the knife belonged to anyways.
"I see the Attano's still have not changed. Traitorous rats to your bones, to go against the laws of the truce here and now.
