Night had fallen again.

Drayce stood atop a lone hill, the grass whispering against his boots as if it already knew to bow. Below him, nestled in the cradle of silver-blue rivers and carved terraces, stretched the capital of Elarion, Aurelia.

It shimmered in soft lamplight and moonstone architecture. The streets were not tall, yet each was placed with care that spoke of pride. They were arranged not for reach but for beauty, designed to mirror the grandeur of a capital that wished to dazzle without towering.  Fountains glittered like scattered jewels across courtyards, their water catching the night lamps. From somewhere deep within, faint music drifted up the hills, perhaps a violin. The whole city pulsed like a dream suspended in glass, fragile and untouchable.

For a moment, Drayce allowed himself to drink the beauty laid out before him.His black hair caught the wind, his gloved hand resting lightly on the belt of his Elarion disguise. To any passerby he would look like a wandering merchant lord.

So this… is Elarion.

A place that poets would protect with paper, not blades. His mouth curved faintly, almost mocking. No verse would ever stop him.

The first look of it had been almost endearing, but sentiment was a luxury he did not allow himself. He hadn’t ridden through night and sun for admiration. His gaze tightened on the inner streched palace, the heart of the city, where the royal house of Aurel guarded its bloodline.

Drayce whispered into the darkness
“Now I wait. For the face behind the name. The princess. Let’s see if shines like a jewel worth keeping… or just a flame that deserves to be snuffed out.”

He stepped forward, boots sinking into the grass, eyes never leaving the shining capital below as though the city was already within his grasp.

And somewhere behind Drayce the strange, glitching hiss came again, faint and fleeting on the wind, Zzk… zzzkkk… zkk.

                                                                      ****************************

It had been twenty-five years since Elarion last celebrated a royal union.

Now, the capital city of Aureth was overflowing with life. The streets surged like rivers, brimming with perfumed nobles and flower-crowned children darting between carts. Vendors shouted over one another, their stalls spilling with every delicacy and luxury imaginable.

But it was not only the shops that shone. The shopkeepers themselves had adorned in their finest attire, eager to honor the day and ready to greet the flood of guests from every province. Jewelers glittered behind their counters, bakers dusted flour from embroidered sleeves, spice merchants polished bronze scales until they gleamed. Beneath the laughter and cheer, all shared the same quiet hope: business would bloom as brightly as the festival lights.

Above them, banners of green and gold streamed from balconies. Lanterns, which were not yet lit, multiplied with every passing moment, carried by thousands. Some delicate and handmade, glowing in uneven streetlight, others grand and ornate, commissioned by noble houses, their family crests sewn into silk so fine it caught the moonlight like water.

At the heart of the celebration, past the laughter, within the palace walls, the Royal Procession stood poised to depart. From the gilded gates of the palace to the marble steps of the Sacred River, the march would move with measured grace, each step steeped in centuries of ritual. There, before the water, the ancient rite of Lantern Release would be performed.

But this was no mere wedding blessing. It was a proclamation to gods and men alike that Elarion still lives. Elarion still shines.

And unlike the festivals of old, this night carried weight beyond its borders. Envoys from distant lands, and eyes from across the seas had come to witness it. For the first time in a generation, the world was watching.

Foreign banners fluttered atop the guest balconies, their colors snapping against the river breeze. Diplomats from distant kingdoms had already gathered at the riverfront, each escorted with ceremony. The air itself seemed alive, buzzing with a hundred voices, a dozen tongues, all blending into the great hymn of celebration.

And yet, through it all, no one noticed the solitary figure adorned in earth-brown robes, drifting through the throng like smoke through a festival flame.

Drayce.

He moved between merchants and nobles with ease, his Vortalis edge carefully blunted beneath Elarion cloth. A false merchant’s brooch gleamed faintly against the drape of his chestpiece. The bustle of the crowd folded around him like water, his presence no more suspicious than a passing shadow.

But still, stray glances found him again and again, lingering as though the crowd could not help itself. Handsomeness alone might have explained it, but in Drayce it became something rarer. The kind of beauty that lingered in the mind long after the eyes had moved on.

As he passed rows of decorated stalls, his gaze wandered not with the awe of a tourist, but with a hunger barely veiled as curiosity. He took it all in. Every shape, every price, every name etched on a shop sign.

Then, from his left, a voice cut through the air

“Eh, ser!”

A shopkeeper, round and smiling beneath a broad headpeice, leaned over his stall, his words thick with the drawl of the riverfolk.

“Will y’only bless me wares with them fine eyes o’ yours, or will ye be loosin’ that fat coin pouch ye keepin’ so careful at yer belt?”

A few nearby shoppers chuckled, hiding grins behind their hands. Drayce turned slowly, wearing the thinnest of smiles.