The golden spires of Solthar's royal palace glistened under the pale morning sun, their brilliance masking the treachery brewing within. The great gates groaned open, revealing the grandeur of the imperial court—marble pillars, crimson banners embroidered with the dragon sigil, and armored guards standing as still as statues.
Yet it was not the opulence that tightened the air that morning. It was the arrival of a guest.
Princess Seris Valenne of Aravelle rode through the gates with silent authority. Draped in silver and navy, her cloak bore the falcon crest of her kingdom, its wings outstretched as if ready to strike. Her silver hair, braided and pinned, shimmered like moonlight, drawing the wary eyes of nobles and soldiers alike.
Beside her, Arian rode in silence. His shoulder ached from the wound, hastily bandaged beneath his royal garb. Yet his posture was unyielding. He had insisted she enter the palace openly, despite her reservations. In this court, secrecy was more dangerous than boldness.
Whispers followed them like shadows.
"Is that the Aravelle princess?"
"Why has she come unannounced?"
"Another political game, no doubt."
They dismounted in the inner courtyard, where Lucien awaited them, leaning casually against a marble column. His dark robes contrasted sharply with the pale stone, and his ever-present serpent coiled lazily around his wrist.
"Brother," Lucien purred, eyes flicking to Seris. "You bring home the most intriguing guests."
Seris met his gaze without flinching. "And you must be the charming brother who smiles as the palace rots from within."
Lucien's smirk faltered for a heartbeat. Then he chuckled. "Ah, the falcon has claws. How delightful."
"Enough," Arian snapped. "Where is Father?"
Lucien straightened, the amusement never fully leaving his eyes. "In the solar. No doubt pondering which of us disappoints him more today."
Without another word, Arian led Seris through the winding halls, past gilded mirrors and faded tapestries. The weight of history bore down on them, each step echoing through corridors that had seen centuries of power and betrayal.
They stopped before towering oak doors, guarded by soldiers clad in black and gold.
Arian pushed them open.
The Emperor of Solthar sat beneath tall arched windows, the morning light casting long shadows across his aged face. Emperor Caelan Draven III was a figure of stone—broad-shouldered, draped in crimson robes, and crowned with a simple gold circlet. His sharp eyes, dulled by years but not by weakness, lifted slowly from the scrolls before him.
"You come unannounced, Arian." His voice was cold, even.
Arian bowed stiffly. "Forgive me, Father. But this is urgent."
He gestured to Seris. "Princess Seris Valenne of Aravelle."
The Emperor's gaze lingered on her, expression unreadable. "Aravelle sends its heir without envoy or warning. Curious."
Seris stepped forward, every inch a royal. "Your Majesty, I come bearing no threat. Only a warning."
A pause.
"The Hollow moves against Solthar."
The Emperor's fingers tightened around the arm of his throne. For a moment, silence stretched thin.
Then, he spoke.
"Leave us."
The guards hesitated. Even Lucien, who had silently followed, arched a brow. But the Emperor's tone allowed no argument.
Only Arian and Seris remained.
"Speak," the Emperor commanded.
Seris's voice was steady. "The Hollow does not merely seek Solthar. They seek to unmake the balance between our kingdoms. They have infiltrated courts, markets, and perhaps even this palace."
The Emperor regarded her in silence, then turned to Arian. "And you believe her?"
Arian met his father's gaze. "I have seen them. They tried to kill me."
Caelan's expression darkened, yet no surprise flickered there—only calculation.
"If this is true," he said slowly, "then war is closer than we imagined."
Seris inclined her head. "Which is why Aravelle extends its hand. We must stand together before the Hollow tears us apart."
The Emperor studied her, then leaned back.
"And what would Aravelle demand for this... alliance?"
Seris's eyes gleamed.
"Nothing yet. But we both know alliances are forged in blood, not words. Let us not wait for that blood to be ours."
The room fell into a cold, measured silence.
Then, slowly, the Emperor smiled—a thin, sharp line.
"Very well, Princess of Aravelle. You shall remain in Solthar as our honored guest."
A guest. Not an ally. Not yet.
But it was a start.
And in the shadows of the palace, the Hollow watched and waited.