Freja and Aragon

The storm had passed.

Heavy clouds, once thick with rain, slowly dissipated to reveal a warm golden sun rising on the horizon. Its light spilled across the jagged slopes of the mountains and bathed the imposing black castle in its glow.

Against the verdant green of the cliffs and the deep blue of the sea, the castle looked like a coal buried within flames—dark, cold, and unmoved by the beauty surrounding it.

Atop a narrow stone pathway built into the cliffs, Aragon stood motionless, his eyes lost in the vast stretch of sea and sky.

From this vantage, he could see everything: the rolling waves crashing against the base of the mountain, the dark silhouette of the castle rising like a monolith, and the lush forests that carpeted the slopes.

It was a place carved by nature's hand, powerful and eternal, much like the fury that now burned within his chest.

Above him, a mighty shadow soared across the sky.