Lycaon

The doors to the Prince's quarters creaked open, revealing the muscular figure of Lycaon, standing in the doorway. It was late in the evening, and the halls of the castle were quiet.

He looked around the room, searching for the Prince, whom he assumed was in there, either reading one of his endless books or writing a long, boring diplomatic letter. Hopefully.

Lycaon noticed the Prince sitting by the window, his back turned to the door. It looked like he was staring out at the night sky, lost in thought.

Lycaon took a few more steps forward, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. He observed the Prince, noting the way his shoulders sagged slightly, as if weighed down by some invisible burden.

“Your Highness,” Lycaon said in a low, even tone, “Is everything alright?”