The city roared with a welcome that threatened to crack the very sky. Banners bearing the emblem of Veritas – a stylized sunburst – snapped in the wind, flanking streets thronged with cheering citizens. From atop a white stallion, Sir Kaelen surveyed the scene with a practiced ease, his hand occasionally rising in a regal wave. The "Hero of the North" had returned, and Veritas was in a frenzy.

The Grolak's head, mounted grotesquely on a wagon trundling slowly behind Kaelen, was a visceral testament to his triumph. It was a brutal display, perhaps, but Kaelen understood the power of spectacle. Fear was easily manipulated, and victory, loudly proclaimed, could quell anxieties faster than any royal decree. He'd learned this lesson in the harsh, unforgiving wilds of the North, where survival often depended on projecting strength, even if it was sometimes a facade.

He’d arrived in Veritas City not just for the accolades, though those were appreciated. No, Kaelen had come to capitalize. The North was a land of hardship and fleeting rewards. The true power, the real wealth, resided here, in the heart of the kingdom. And Kaelen intended to claim his share.

The procession wound its way towards the Royal Palace, where the King himself awaited. Kaelen knew the King had been under pressure, especially with the rumors of unrest amongst the lower classes, the disturbing tales from the Azure Coast regarding Lyra's 'crazy' theories, and growing taxes due to the Grolak's attack and the need of hiring mercenaries, but as a hero he would be rewarded handsomely.

The audience with the King was brief but fruitful. King Oberon, a man weary of governance, seemed genuinely relieved to have a hero to parade before his increasingly anxious subjects. Gold flowed freely, titles were bestowed, and promises were made. The most significant of these promises was a position in the Royal Guard, a coveted spot that would secure Kaelen's place at the very heart of Veritian power.

The uniform was pristine, the armour polished to a blinding gleam. Kaelen admired himself in the mirror. The crimson and gold of the Royal Guard suited him. It was a far cry from the worn leathers and scarred steel he had become accustomed to, but he wore it with the same confidence, the same air of authority. This wasn't just a uniform; it was a symbol, a key to unlocking doors that had previously remained firmly closed.

His days were now filled with drills, patrols, and endless rounds of flattering nobles eager to bask in the glow of his heroism. Kaelen played the role with practiced charm, dispensing anecdotes of his battle with the Grolak, exaggerating the danger, embellishing his own bravery. He was a performer, and Veritas City was his stage.

One afternoon, while inspecting the outer perimeter of the palace gardens, Kaelen noticed a young man sketching in a small notebook. The man was perched on a stone bench, seemingly oblivious to the activity around him. He was dressed in fine clothes, but his posture lacked the rigid bearing Kaelen associated with nobility. There was something… delicate about him.

Curiosity piqued, Kaelen approached, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel path. "And what masterpiece are you creating, young master?" he asked, his voice booming with an affected joviality.

The young man startled, his head snapping up. He was even younger than Kaelen had initially thought, barely out of his teens. His eyes, a startling shade of blue, widened slightly. "Oh, um… nothing of consequence, sir," he stammered, quickly closing the notebook.

Kaelen recognized the crest on the young man's signet ring – the Von Hess family. "Von Hess, eh? I've heard tell of General Erich Von Hess. A stern man, they say. And you are…?"

"Alistair," the young man replied, his voice barely a whisper. He seemed uncomfortable, almost intimidated.

Kaelen chuckled. "Alistair. Not exactly a warrior's name, is it? More suited to a poet, perhaps." He glanced at the closed notebook. "Or a painter. No doubt you're off practicing your brush strokes while your father is out drilling soldiers. You should try something more appropriate for your blood, or risk dishonoring the family name".

Alistair's face flushed, but he said nothing. He merely lowered his gaze, fiddling with the silver clasp on his notebook.

Kaelen continued, enjoying the young man's discomfort. "Tell me, Alistair, does the roar of a monster sound as pretty as a sonnet? Does a blade glisten the same way as a painting? Perhaps you can paint a monster to death, instead of actually fighting it."

Alistair looked up, his blue eyes flickering with a spark of defiance, but it was quickly extinguished. "I… I have no interest in combat, sir."

Kaelen snorted. "Clearly. You're a disgrace to your family, boy. A pampered noble living off his father's spoils." He patted the hilt of his sword. "This is what earns respect, Alistair. This is what protects Veritas. Not whatever frivolous pursuits you engage in."

He turned to leave, tossing one last dismissive glance over his shoulder. "Enjoy your little drawings, Alistair Von Hess. Just try not to cut yourself with the charcoal."

As Kaelen strode away, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of… something. Not guilt, certainly not. Perhaps a twinge of envy? Envy for the freedom Alistair possessed, the freedom to indulge in his passions without the weight of expectation. No, that was ridiculous. Kaelen had earned his position, forged his own destiny through blood and steel. Alistair Von Hess was merely a pampered noble, destined for irrelevance.

He had more important matters to attend to. He was scheduled to attend a meeting with the King's advisors later that evening, to discuss strategies for improving the city's defenses. His voice, the voice of the "Hero of the North", was finally being heard. He was finally taking his place in the inner circle, where decisions were made, and power was wielded.

He dismissed Alistair from his mind, a fleeting distraction in his ascent to greatness. He had no way of knowing that the seemingly insignificant encounter in the palace gardens would later prove to be a critical point, a moment where two vastly different paths diverged, destined to intersect in the most unexpected and consequential way. The hero, the virtuoso, the preacher and the mage. They were all pieces in a grand puzzle, a puzzle whose solution was about to plunge Veritas into darkness. Kaelen was convinced his sword was the answer.