The bells of Struttsburg rang in waves across the horizon—silver, sonorous, and solemn. From every tower and turret of the great imperial city, they sang of birth, legacy, and the uncertain promise of unity.

  The Eastern Gate stood open, flanked by banners thirty feet high, their golden hems trembling in the wind like river silk. Imperial guards in gilded half-plate lined the processional route, their spears raised in salute. Rope lines held back the crowd—thousands of souls pressed shoulder to shoulder. Peasants in their best scraps. Merchants in bright sashes. Dust-covered pilgrims who had traveled for days just for a glimpse. The very air buzzed with the strange thrill of peace.

  And then—horns, their call like thunder from golden mouths.

  The voices from above the gate towers boomed:

  “All rise for Her Radiance, Queen Arendiel of the Silver Vales!”

  “Make way for His Majesty, King Brambor of Everwatch, Lord of the Winter Castle!”

  The crowd erupted into applause and then hushed in awe.

  Two processions entered at once—an orchestration so flawless it could only have come from imperial precision or some twist of fate.

  Queen Arendiel of the Silver Vale was first through the gates.

  The sun dipped low behind her procession, so that when Queen Arendiel appeared she seemed sculpted from light and dreams. Her carriage glided, not rolled. A construct of silver root wood and glass-veined crystal, it hovered inches above the cobblestones, untouched by dust, mud, or time.

  Her guard rode beside her-twelve elven sentinels astride towering white stags, antlers crowned in silver filigree. The stags walked with the silent dignity of forest gods, their hooves never striking stone, but floating a hairsbreadth above it. Around them, the air shimmered faintly, as though the realm of mortals were bending in deference.

  Arendiel herself sat unmoving. Unblinking. She wore a gown of woven sky fern and moonweave, threaded with leaves that never wilted. Her skin glowed like pearl beneath moonlight, her hair a sheet of pale gold draped in delicate rings of living ivy. Her eyes-older than most trees in the empire-surveyed the city not with curiosity, but memory.

  On either side of her carriage rode her twin bodygurards-Liluth and Vaeil-sisters born under the same eclipse. They wore green-grey armor molded to their forms, their swords wrapped in white silk. Vaeil, stoic and severe, scanned every rooftop. Liluth watched the crowd, her smile as unreadable as the wind. The only way to tell the two apart was by their choice in hair styles. Liluth kept hers a dark purple and short. It lay just above her shoulders. Vaeil's was dark blue, and halfway down her back.

  Elven horns sang from the rear of the procession-clear, sad, impossibly beautiful.

  A noble woman fainted at the sound and had to be tended to.

  And somewhere behind the crowd, a child whispered to her father, "is she a goddess?"

  Then it got loud.

  From the further down the road came a sound not of horns, but of war drums-heavy, rhythmic, primitive. A heartbeat of bone and blood.

  And then they saw him.

  Muscling forward upon a direwolf the size of a dray-horse, rode King Brambor of Everwatch. His wild hair curled like dark fire, and his wolfskin mantle billowed like the sails of a warship. The direwolf, white as tomb-frost and armored in obsidian scale, snarled as it passed, yellow eyes flickering like twin torches.

  Brambor was cut from stone. Thick, scarred arms, layered in iron plates and wolf-hide. His crown was a simple band of steel and onyx, weathered and dented from battle. Around his neck hung a fang the size of a dagger-rumored to have been torn from the throat of a frost-dragon. His hair was black streaked with white, his beard braided with bone and twine, and his face bore a single, jagged scar from his lower right eye to the side of his jaw.

  Behind him marched his personal warhost.

  A hundred grim riders clad in red and gray, their armor unpolished, their faces hidden behind snarling wolf-visors. Behind them came pike-men and scouts, archers bearing long-bows carved from black oak, and the legendary Ten of the Vargborn-his shieldmaidens and battle-priests, who spoke only in the Old Tongue and bore tattoos of the moons of Everwatch across their chests.

  No music accompanied them. No songs. Only the steady cadence of war drums and the low growl of beasts.

  As Brambor entered the gate, his eyes did not seek the crowds. He glanced only once toward Queen Arendiel's carriage, then spat upon the road.

  The two rulers slowed their pace as they neared the Grand Fountain of Ascension.

  Arendiel’s smile was frost thin. “Still clinging to your furs, Brambor? It must feel like summer in the empire.”

  “Your kind may wilt in cold weather,” Brambor growled, “but mine hunt better in it.”

  They halted together and turned their mounts to face the main avenue.

  Behind them came their entourages—singers, knights, counselors, and standard-bearers—each a world unto themselves.

  At the head of the greeting party stood Emperor Gregor Willinghelm, tall and solemn in ceremonial half-plate polished to mirror-shine, his crimson cloak trimmed in white elk fur. He stood beside his Empress, Cristina, who held in her arms the unnamed prince—swaddled in pearl-gray velvet and cradled in white fox fur.

  Cristina’s smile was poised and serene, though her eyes carried the glassy strain of sleepless nights. Her dark hair was woven into a circlet of golden leaves, and her arms never shifted from the child, who nestled against her chest with surprising stillness.

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  Behind them stood a host of the most powerful names in the realm.

  Lord Protector Ernesto Montclef, square-jawed and unsmiling, bore the silver helm of his office beneath one arm.

  Nylla the Green stood in long robes of moss and mist, crowned with fresh buds and bearing a staff that dripped with dew, her presence as eerie and soft as dream-fog.

  To their left, Lord Chronos Chessire stood in ceremonial black, both sons flanking him—Sir Manfred grim in white and Sir Marduke glowering in bronze—and Elianora just behind, resplendent in green and silver armor, her tabard bearing the rose sigil of her order.

  General Baraten stood to the right, his steel-clad knights aligned behind him in a sea of red plumes and sharp halberds.

  At the far edge of the platform stood Arch Bishop Luc de Presti, arms crossed, lips thin, eyes brimming with quiet disgust. Behind him stood a dozen holy knights of the Endless Faith, resplendent in golden armor and long white tabards. Luc did not bow nor smile. He leaned toward Ernesto with a whisper that carried none of the warmth of faith.

  “We are a kingdom of men. Yet we make pageants for creatures of myth. It is blasphemy, no matter how finely dressed.”

  Ernesto did not turn. “Pray, then. But do not poison peace.”

  Luc scoffed.

  As the two processions halted, Gregor stepped forward. Cristina followed beside him, the child still in her arms.

  The emperor raised his arms. “Struttsburg welcomes the Rose of the Vale and the Wolf of the East. Your presence on this sacred day honors our house—and our future.”

  The Empress stepped forward and curtsied deeply, her voice warm and clear.

  “It pleases us greatly to share our joy with you. May your roads have been kind and your days ahead kinder still.” She turned slightly, lifting the child for all to see. “Here is the hope of our house, and the light we share with the realm. You grace him with your presence.”

  Arendiel gave a graceful nod, placing her hand to her heart. She then leaned in an touched the boy's brow with two fingers, whispering a phrase in her native tongue.

  “May the sap of your life run deep, and your roots outlast storm and axe.”

  Brambor stared at the child for a long moment. His voice, when it came, was rough but genuine.

  “A name day fit for a prince. And a prince fit for an empire—if the wolves don’t eat it first.”

  Laughter rippled among the gathered lords.

  Queen Arendiel gave him a sidelong look. “Was that a threat or a compliment?”

  “Both,” Brambor replied, dismounting with a crunch of his boots. The wolf-beast huffed beside him.

  Before more words could be traded, the wind shifted. Shadows fell.

  “Look!” someone cried. “In the sky!”

  The clouds parted, revealing three titanic dwarven airships-thundersteel and fire belching from the rear engines, casting shadows across the sunlit square. They descended like falling mountains, tethered by floating rune-chains, each one humming with quiet magic and ancient power.

  The lead vessel bore the banner of the Thunder Mountains.

  “By the gods…” whispered Elianora. “They’ve brought the mountain with them.”

  The lead vessel slowly descended, groaning with heat and weight. From it extended a massive ramp adorned with stone carvings and gold trim. A low, rhythmic thrum pulsed from the engines above as dwarves in ceremonial armor lined the sides, axes raised in salute.

  King Zansabar emerged from the smoke, beard braided with thunder stones, cloak of dragonhide swirling behind him. His chest was bare beneath it; his skin covered in old burn scars and battle-wounds. He wore no crown. He carried no scepter. He stepped with the certainty of stone.

  He was the crown.

  Behind him came his iron-thanes, the Black Anvils of the Thunder Keep, and the Deepfire Priests, chanting hymns in the deep tongue that echoed like drums.

  Zansabar raised a gauntlet and bellowed:

  "Gregor, you long-legged harlot! Still drawing breath?"

  Gregor laughed-loud and unguarded-and stepped forward. The two men embraced in the old mercenary way—gripping forearms, warrior to warrior.

  "More than I can say for the ox you shamed last winter."

  "He slipped!" Zansabar roared.

  The crowd erupted in laughter.

  “Zansabar,” Gregor said, “you magnificent bastard. You could’ve just sent a raven.”

  “And let the elves have all the flair?” the dwarf growled, laughing. “I’d rather mine my own ears.”

  Queen Arendiel watched the landing with raised eyebrows.

  “Trust dwarves to arrive by hurling a mountain from the sky,” she murmured. “And to land on a carpet of our applause.”

  Brambor smirked. “Let them. Dwarves make everything more exciting elf.”

  Draumbean stepped forward his eyes gleaming with old memory. "King Zansabar," he said, his voice echoing strangely, "do you still carry the fragment of godglass I gave you in Argenhall?"

  The dwarf raised a brow. "Of course I do. You said it would grow when the world turned dark."

  "Then you should check it," Draumbean murmured.

  Zansabar frowned-but said nothing.

  Gregor returned to the center. His voice lowered slightly. “But understand this—your presence today is more than ceremony. I am deeply grateful that you answered the call. There are… matters… far darker looming upon us. Matters that affect all free realms.” Matters that concern all of our peoples. The dead rise in the west. The green tide grows bolder in the south. And something ancient has begun to stir. You were not invited merely as allies-but as the few I trust to face what comes."

  Brambor straightened, eyes narrowing. “Then say what you must, old friend. Are we at war?”

  Gregor shook his head.

  “Later,” he said, voice gentle but resolute. “Rest first. Settle your kin. Tonight, a private council will be held. I ask you all—come. There are things you must hear.”

  Zansabar raised a brow. “That grim tone doesn’t suit your new armor, Gregor. Has the boy cursed you already?”

  Cristina smiled faintly. Gregor did not.

  Arendiel’s gaze lingered on the Emperor longer than the others. As she turned away, she whispered softly to her guards, just loud enough for the wind to catch it.

  “He hides worry in his voice. Worry deep as winter. That bodes ill—for all of us.”

  Liluth and Vaeil flanked her silently. Vaeil gave a small nod.

  “Shall we double the guard, my queen?”

  “Double it,” she said. “And do not let your attention wander.”

  Daggers beneath the parade:

  And amid all this-unseen, unheard-death slipped in.

  The assassins did not ride stags or direwolves.

  They came in barrels, wagons, hoods, and lies.

  A merchant cart, marked as belonging to House Velgrand, rumbled through the South Gates carrying barrels of pickled fish. Inside the largest cask were two men, their skin smeared with resin and vinegar to mask the smell of blood. One held a crossbow. The other held his breath.

  A veiled priestess from the Order of the Dying Star walked barefoot, muttering prayers in an ancient dialect. None questioned her. Her censer was filled with bone dust and belladonna. Her blade was hidden in her scriptures.

  Elsewhere, away from the glittering streets and warm greetings, a different sort of arrival unfolded.

  Down at the river docks, far from the main gates, a dozen small merchant boats drifted into port just after sunset. They bore crates, barrels, and silks from distant isles-Orengarth wine, spices from the Dune Sea, and bolts of cloud-fabric that fetched a king's purse in the upper markets.

  The harbor master, an aging fellow named Brogg Maelwin, scratched his thinning beard as he watched them tie off. Something felt... off.

  He waved down one of the dockhands. "Where's the headman? These shipments weren't on the list."

  The young man shrugged. "Said they came in under charter from Port Jesven, master. Paid full coin."

  Brogg snorted. "And I'm the bloody emperor'.

  He made his way down toward one of the larger barges, his lantern swaying. He climbed below deck, muttering about paperwork and forgeries.

  He never came back up.

  Below, between crates marked olive oil and onions, lurked something far darker-figures in shadow-gray cloaks, eyes like burnt coals peering from beneath helms of foreign steel. The last thing Brogg saw was a glint of curved metal before the blade opened his throat.

  One of the killers wiped his knife clean on the man's sleeve and said in a low voice," We move at dusk."