(GRIFFIN)
The sun is higher now, casting strong, clean light across the palace grounds as I make my way back.
The guards at the gates straighten as I approach, and the familiar ache of confinement resurfaces in my chest. Still, I nod at them and push through. I can't avoid the palace forever. Not when there are duties pressing in from every side.
I barely make it to the main courtyard when the air shimmers, warping and bending, and a portal opens up before me. Instinctively, I shift my stance, ready to defend if needed. But I catch the familiar scent just as the figures step through.
Locke, King of the Northern Wolf Kingdom, emerges first, his massive frame rigid, his face carved in a deep scowl that seems permanently etched into his features. His dark hair is cropped short, and his armor is battered and worn, a testament to the countless battles he has fought. His entire presence screams war and discipline.
