GrantingTheRant

Arver gazed out the window of his sleeping quarters. This was the room he had slept in since the day he was born, and he couldn’t find much to complain about it. His silk-sheeted bed looked and felt like it was carved out of a cumulus cloud. Luxurious red velvet carpeted the floor from corner to corner. On the wall was a gorgeous painting of a landscape, but even that paled in comparison to the view from his window. The sun had just begun to retreat back under the horizon, bathing the city in a warm neon glow. In just a month, the beautiful landscape before him would be set upon by hundreds of writhing, hideous, abominable monsters in search of Verian treasure - or, failing that, Verian blood. It was the moment he’d been training for since his childhood. So why, then, did he feel the cold claw of dread gripping his heart? Did he doubt his own ability? Did he doubt the judgment of King Rava, who hand-picked him to succeed his father? Perhaps, he thought, this was what all soldiers