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The name sat on him like a borrowed tuxedo—stiff, formal, and a little too big. Prince Richardson wasn't a prince. He was a mechanic from East Cleveland who smelled of grease and spoke in grunts. His father, a man with a cruel sense of humor, had named him after a racehorse he'd lost a fortune on the night Prince was born.

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Richardson understood. The kingdom had become consumed by endless toil, forgetting the simple joys of stargazing, of storytelling, of community. The Heartstone, when returned to Lyrath, would rekindle those lost connections. The name sat on him like a borrowed

At the altar’s center rested the Heartstone of Everlight—a smooth, radiant gem the color of sunrise. As he lifted it, the stone resonated with his own heartbeat, and the whispers of the stars surged around him, forming a chorus: His father, a man with a cruel sense