[Glorious Forest of Glaseach, Fal' Athrandor]
Three months after Randia’s sighting, the Four Great Nations resolved to convene a Grand Summit. The venue chosen for such a gathering could scarcely have been more symbolic. Fal' Athrandor, royal capital of Unisium Faelanas and heart of the elven dominions, had remained largely secluded from the affairs of the outside world since the end of the Last March. Yet on the nineteenth day of summer, rulers, envoys, and dignitaries from across the Known World had gathered beneath its boughs.
All save one.
The final delegation arrived shortly before noon.
Nicholas Belsvan, representative of the Aramian Empire, entered the Glorious Forest of Glaseach accompanied by an entourage large enough to resemble a military expedition more than a diplomatic mission. Crimson banners fluttered above the procession, their colors cutting sharply against the sea of green that surrounded them. The delay had not been intentional. Moving Aramian officials, advisors, guards, servants, and logistical personnel across half a continent required the sort of planning usually associated with military campaigns.
Even so, the inconvenience quickly faded from memory.
Fal' Athrandor had that effect on visitors.
The city was often described as a triumph of harmony between civilization and nature, though such descriptions rarely survived first contact with reality. Harmony implied cooperation between separate entities. Fal' Athrandor felt more like evidence that the distinction had never existed in the first place. Trees curved into halls and walkways without ever surrendering their vitality. Streams threaded through districts with deliberate purpose, feeding gardens that seemed to arrange themselves. Moss glowed softly along woven walls, while clusters of luminous flowers provided illumination where torches might have stood elsewhere.
It was less a city than an ecosystem that had learned architecture.
"This is my first time seeing the elven capital," one knight admitted quietly.
"Careful," another replied. "I've heard stories."
"Oh?"
"They say the elves enchant the place. You arrive intending to stay for a week, then wake up fifty years later wondering where your life went."
The first knight laughed.
"And people call Aramians paranoid."
"They call us many things."
The exchange drew a few chuckles from nearby riders before an altogether softer sound silenced them. Porcelain touched ceramic somewhere within the imperial carriage.
The reaction was immediate. Several knights straightened in their saddles. Others looked away entirely.
Inside the carriage, Nicholas sat beside a lacquered tea set, gazing through the open window at the passing forest. His expression remained stern, though his attention had little to do with the conversation outside.
"O-Our apologies, Your Excellency."
Nicholas regarded them for a moment.
“Knights in light spirits are a sign of peace and prosperity,” Nicholas replied, his voice calm. “Your joy would be a dream fulfilled for the fallen. Still, I trust your blades are honed should peace falter.”
The chastened men lowered their heads.
His expression softened slightly.
“Also,” he added, voice lowering, “keep it in your mind that they are indeed watching—through every moss and insect.”
“Is it truly possible to wield Alana to such a degree, Your Excellency?” one asked.
“"If anyone can accomplish it, the elves can. This is the first Grand Summit since the Last March. Every delegation has arrived carrying secrets, suspicions, and agendas. It would be naïve to assume our hosts are uninterested in any of them. Who knows how many vines lie twisted beneath this place?”
No one laughed after that.
The remainder of the journey passed in relative silence.
Roughly twenty minutes later, the procession reached the Western Gate.
The structure emerged gradually through the forest canopy, revealing itself piece by piece until even veteran soldiers found themselves staring. Two towers rose on either side of the entrance, their crowns glowing with steady blue radiance. Veins of light coursed through the stonework like arteries carrying luminous blood. Countless runes drifted across the gate's surface, appearing and disappearing in patterns too complex to follow.
As their procession halted, two owls—one black, one white—emerged from the glowing orbs atop the towers. Their eyes shone with eldritch light as they descended and perched upon the gate. The black owl bore a scroll in its talons; the white, a small box no larger than half a man’s palm.
“The master of the contingent—please step forward,” the owls intoned in eerie unison.
Nicholas obeyed. The black owl swooped down, releasing the scroll into his hands before returning to its perch. Upon unrolling the document, he discovered a magically enforced agreement. The contents were straightforward enough. As a security measure, the leader of each delegation was required to provide blood authorization before being granted access to the inner city. Thereafter, entry and exit permissions for their nation's representatives would remain tied to that authorization.
“What if I refuse?” Nicholas asked, his tone laced with subtle menace.
A pause. Then, the owl responded, “With all due respect, Your Excellency, the requirement is mandatory.”
Nicholas stared at the creature.
Then he smiled.
“Fine, fine. I was only jesting.”
Pricking his finger, he pressed a drop of blood against the parchment. The runes embedded within the document ignited briefly before fading. The white owl immediately flew forward and deposited its box into his hand. Inside rested a ring crowned by an emerald gemstone.
“What is this?”
“Your permit pass.”
No sooner had the answer been given than the gate responded. Light surged through the runic channels. Vines coiled across the entrance withdrew like retreating serpents. A deep rumble echoed through the forest as the enormous doors began to part, revealing pale wood carved with scenes from the elven creation myth.
Beyond the threshold stood ten elven officials. Each carried a silver salver upon which rested numerous necklaces.
"In emergency situations, the delegation master may authorize an individual's departure. Touching the ring to a necklace will activate it."
A second official continued seamlessly.
"The gemstone will turn blue once authorization has been granted."
A third offered the final condition.
"Should an incident occur within Fal' Athrandor, no delegation will be permitted to leave until every issued necklace has been accounted for."
The policy was equal parts security protocol and hostage insurance.
Nicholas chose not to comment.
One by one, members of the Aramian delegation accepted their assigned necklaces. Only Nicholas himself remained exempt. The process took several minutes, and only after the final necklace had found its wearer did the gate open completely.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Your Excellency.”
The officials retreated. The owls were silent—then, after a beat:
“The delegation of the Aramian Empire has arrived!”
Their voices carried far beyond the gate, and from somewhere within the city came the reply.
“Welcome to Fal' Athrandor, honored guests!”
[Inner Domain, Fal’ Athrandor]
The gates of Fal' Athrandor opened fully, and the Aramian delegation passed into the heart of the elven realm.
Even after everything they had witnessed in the outer forest, many found themselves slowing their pace.
The city defied easy description. Most capitals were built upon rivers, coastlines, mountains, or fertile plains. Fal' Athrandor had been built upon none of those things. The city occupied the colossal trunk of Eol'thaire, the World Tree, whose dimensions rendered conventional measurements almost meaningless. Entire kingdoms could have hidden within the shadow it cast at midday. Districts, gardens, temples, and palaces had been cultivated directly into its living form, spreading across immense terraces of bark and wood that rose layer upon layer toward the distant canopy.
Isolation served as the city's first line of defense.
The second was considerably more tangible.
A vast ring-shaped river encircled the central domain, fed by countless waterfalls that poured from higher reaches of the tree. The rushing waters formed a natural moat of staggering proportions, separating the inner city from the outer districts. Any army foolish enough to contemplate a direct assault would first need to solve an engineering problem capable of occupying several generations of military planners.
To cross the divide, visitors relied upon one of eight bridges extending toward the city like spokes upon a wheel.
Each had been carved from empyramite, a rare volcanic stone prized across the world for its unusual properties. During daylight, the material absorbed sunlight and ambient Alana alike. At night, it released both in a soft luminescence that made the bridges appear like ribbons of captured moonlight suspended above the water below.
The eight crossings aligned perfectly with the cardinal and intercardinal directions.
Even architecture, it seemed, became symbolism in elven hands.
From the balconies of the lodging palace overlooking the bridges, foreign delegates observed the Aramian arrival.
Many had already settled into their assigned quarters after weeks of travel. Some watched openly. Others pretended not to. Diplomacy encouraged courtesy, but curiosity remained one of humanity's most persistent instincts.
The Aramians crossed the bridge in disciplined formation.
Crimson cloaks stirred beneath the afternoon breeze. Polished armor reflected scattered shafts of sunlight filtering through the canopy overhead. Their footsteps echoed rhythmically against empyramite, producing a measured cadence that carried across the river.
From the high balcony of the lodging palace, foreign delegates gazed down as the Aramians advanced across the bridges. Their march was thunderous. Crimson cloaks rippled in the breeze, a tide of iron resolve and imperial pride. Their presence pressed heavy on the soul.
Half of the eyes watching were tight with disdain and old grudge. The other half—shadowed by unease, wary of what might unfold.
Among those scornful gazes was a pair belonging to a knight of the Holy Theocracy of Helden.
“Warmongers,” he muttered. “Squint-eyed foxes, craven witches, lowly pirates, greedy sand-eaters, and half-sane artificiers... The mere thought of breathing the same air as these heathens turns my stomach. I would sooner share a bed with a cadaver.”
The woman standing beside him released a quiet sigh.
"Richard."
The single word carried enough warning to halt further commentary.
The knight reluctantly straightened.
The priestess beside him wore layered robes of cedar-colored silk beneath a finely embroidered mantle. Glass beads hung from her headdress, swaying gently whenever she moved. Sunlight caught their surfaces, scattering points of light across the balcony like fragments of shattered stars.
Unfortunately, no amount of decorative craftsmanship could disguise irritation.
"Mind your manners," Sonya said. "We are diplomats today."
"But Priestess—"
"No."
The response arrived with surprising firmness.
"A small nation survives by choosing its friends and foes very carefully. Tell me, Richard, would your pride feed a village after war burns its fields? Would your convictions rebuild homes? Would they bring back burried children?"
The knight lowered his gaze.
". . . No, Priestess."
"Then do not spend lives so casually."
Richard remained silent. Below them, the Aramian delegation continued its march. Sonya watched for several moments before speaking again.
“Especially them... You’ve never seen Aramia at war, have you?"
"No."
"Pray it stays that way. They are the one force no minor power should ever provoke. Only their own infighting—can slow them.”
The beads hanging from her veil chimed softly as she turned away from the bridge.
"The Great Four are not merely large nations. They are akin to the climate themselves. When they move, everyone else adjusts their course accordingly. Minor kingdoms like ours survive by learning which storms must never be challenged."
Richard followed her gaze back toward the advancing delegation, and he did not argue. The Empire of Aramia inspired many emotions. Underestimation was rarely one of them.
By the time the Aramians reached their accommodations, the final major delegation had arrived. The logistical requirements for the summit were finally complete, and with them came the realization that months of anticipation had run out.
The summit could begin.
Trumpets sounded throughout the city.
Their notes rolled through the canopy like waves passing through leaves.
Moments later, hundreds of fairies took flight. Trails of luminescence followed their movements as they spiraled through the air in elaborate formations. Flowers bloomed in their wake, opening petals of impossible colors. Vines unfurled. Branches shimmered. For a brief moment, Fal' Athrandor resembled a living festival painted across the sky.
Beneath Eol'thaire's immense canopy stood more than a thousand delegates, officials, advisors, attendants, guards, and observers representing nearly every recognized nation of the Known World. Their banners fluttered side by side in the breeze, creating a tapestry of colors rarely seen outside history books.
The spectacle was magnificent. Yet, the colors could not warm the air. Tension hung like frost, and no amount of pageantry could fully disguise why everyone had gathered here. Proximity should never be mistaken for unity. Some among them had spent generations fighting border wars. Several maintained trade rivalries fierce enough to bankrupt cities. Others had arrived carrying diplomatic grievances thick enough to qualify as literature.
However it may, the show must go on.
The opening ceremony commenced beneath the branches of the World Tree. The festivities suggested celebration, even though the attendance might suggested otherwise.
Once the opening ceremony concluded, the delegates were escorted to a banquet prepared by the hosts of Unisium Faelanas.
The meal served a purpose beyond hospitality. Statesmen throughout history had devoted remarkable effort to pretending that diplomacy was governed by ideals, laws, and reasoned debate. In practice, however, many negotiations owed just as much to full stomachs, strong wine, and the simple realization that one's counterpart was, in fact, a fellow human being. Food, once again, proved itself the finest lingua franca in the world.
The strategy worked about as well as could be expected.
For a few hours, conversations drifted freely between tables that would never have shared the same roof elsewhere. Merchants traded stories with generals. Priests discussed theology with scholars. Noblemen discovered that foreign nobles complained about taxes with almost identical enthusiasm. Old rivals even managed the impressive diplomatic feat of acting as though they had never been rivals at all.
No treaties were signed.
No grievances were resolved.
Yet the atmosphere improved considerably, which in diplomatic terms amounted to a minor miracle.
Eventually, however, the banquet reached its inevitable conclusion.
Platters were cleared away. Goblets emptied. Conversations that had wandered toward comfortable irrelevance were reluctantly abandoned. The assembled dignitaries rose from their seats and began making their way toward the upper reaches of Eol'thaire.
The journey itself reminded everyone that they were guests within an elven capital.
Rather than stairs or elevators, enormous leaves detached themselves from nearby branches and descended to receive passengers. Once occupied, they rose smoothly through the canopy, carried by unseen currents of Alana. The experience inspired varying reactions. Some delegates accepted the method of transportation with practiced composure. Others gripped the edges rather more tightly than dignity recommended.
The leaves ascended through successive layers of greenery.
Below them, districts of Fal' Athrandor unfolded like a living map. Waterfalls poured from impossible heights. Bridges of glowing empyramite stretched across vast distances. Gardens flourished atop branches large enough to support entire neighborhoods. Even those determined not to be impressed often found themselves stealing a glance or two.
For many present, this was their first and likely only visit to the hidden capital.
The Assembly Hall occupied a vast chamber grown directly into the trunk of Eol'thaire.
The distinction mattered.
Nothing about the structure suggested construction in the conventional sense. No blocks had been quarried. No pillars erected. No ceiling assembled. Instead, the chamber appeared to have emerged naturally from the World Tree itself, guided over centuries by patient cultivation and elven craftsmanship. The walls curved smoothly around a circular floor, while luminous vines traced intricate patterns overhead. Soft golden light filtered through translucent sections of living wood, bathing the hall in perpetual twilight.
The air smelled faintly of sap, flowers, and rain.
At the center stood a massive round table.
The symbolism was obvious.
Elves had always preferred diplomacy delivered with subtlety, except when they preferred the exact opposite.
Delegates gradually took their assigned seats while attendants circulated through the chamber. Quiet conversations resumed. Observations were exchanged. Alliances were reaffirmed. Suspicions were carefully maintained.
Then the hosts arrived.
Traditionally, Unisium Faelanas was governed by three High Elders, each representing one of the principal elven lineages. Yet only one attended the summit in an official capacity.
Auryon Vindafeil of the Aviarel.
The winged elder moved toward the head of the table with measured confidence. Pale silver robes draped from his shoulders, while folded wings rested against his back like a ceremonial mantle. He wore no crown. He did not require one. Certain individuals accumulated authority so thoroughly that ornamental confirmation became redundant.
Beside him stood the herald of the assembly.
Clad in azure robes and crowned with woven ivy, she carried a scroll containing the official proceedings of the summit. When she stepped forward, conversations gradually diminished until silence settled across the chamber.
"Arbada, Fourteenth of Sun's Crown, Tenth Year of the Fourth Age."
Her voice carried effortlessly through the hall.
"The Third Grand Summit shall now commence. Honoured delegates, please rise."
Chairs shifted.
Representatives from across the Known World rose together.
"The Oath of Virtue will now be administered. The rite shall proceed according to established order, beginning with the delegation of the Republic of Varnaria."
A priest approached carrying a golden chalice.
The vessel bore the scales of Justicius engraved upon its surface, surrounded by lines of sacred script rendered in silver. Though simple in function, it represented one of the summit's most important safeguards. Diplomacy depended upon trust. Since trust was in notoriously short supply, divine enforcement served as a practical substitute.
One by one, delegates offered their palms.
A shallow cut.
A few drops of blood.
Another contribution to the growing contents of the chalice.
The ritual proceeded around the table.
Different nations invoked different gods. Some spoke in familiar tongues. Others recited prayers in languages so old that even scholars argued over their precise translations. Yet despite the diversity of traditions, every oath revolved around the same commitment.
Acceptance of the summit's final judgment.
Whether that judgment would be accepted gracefully remained a separate issue.
When the final offering had been made, the priest raised the chalice above his head and whispered an invocation.
The blood responded immediately.
Crimson liquid shimmered before gathering into a single suspended droplet. For a moment it hung motionless above the vessel. Then it burst apart in a circle of radiant light that swept across the chamber and settled around the wrist of every delegate present.
A magical contract.
Simple.
Effective.
And considerably more reliable than promises.
Only after the rite concluded did the formal proceedings truly begin.
The first delegate to rise was Rulow Landon of Varnaria.
The Varnarian representative possessed the air of a man perpetually disappointed by the existence of other people. Dressed in green and gold befitting his republic's long traditions, he surveyed the gathering with the stern concentration of a magistrate reviewing evidence before sentencing.
"In the name of Justicius, I, Rulow Landon of Varnaria, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."
He resumed his seat.
The oath moved onward.
Baradin Sigmundsson of Hilverhold rose next.
The northern delegate looked less like a diplomat than a veteran raider who had wandered into the wrong building and decided to stay. Broad shoulders strained against his clothing. Scars crossed weathered skin. His sheer physical presence made nearby furniture appear inadequately engineered.
"Einst a namas os Fonseti, I, Baradin Sigmundsson of Hilverhold, swear meis allegians to a resulj os a Granda Summite."
The declaration rolled through the chamber like distant thunder. Somewhere nearby, a servant visibly flinched. Baradin himself did not notice. Or perhaps he did and simply chose not to care.
Beside him, a woman smiled faintly as she rose from her chair.
Namira of Zarim seemed entirely aware of the attention she attracted and entirely untroubled by it. Gold, turquoise, and silver complemented rather than overwhelmed her presence. More importantly, she possessed the confidence of someone accustomed to navigating royal courts where a misplaced sentence could prove more dangerous than a misplaced dagger.
"In the name of Ala, I, Namira of Zarim, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."
The oath continued its slow journey around the table.
No matter how different their customs, rulers shared an almost universal faith in ceremony. Kingdoms rose and fell. Dynasties vanished into footnotes. Borders shifted with alarming regularity. Yet somehow every generation remained convinced that standing in the correct location and reciting the correct words could impose order upon a disorderly world. Perhaps they were not entirely wrong.
The next two delegates rose in turn, and it took only a glance to understand that they came from very different corners of civilization.
Jun Yu-hwa of Yeon stepped forward first.
She carried herself with quiet elegance, her voice as soft as falling snow yet firm with conviction. She wore a flowing hanbok of moon-white and celadon green, the curved lines of her jeogori vesture embracing her form with modest dignity. Delicate embroidery of cranes in flight adorned the hem, symbolizing loyalty and peace, while her long braided hair was coiled into a low bun held by a jade hairpin shaped like a blooming plum blossom. A sheer veil hung from her ornate hwarot coronet, its silken tassels dancing faintly with each breath of wind. Her serene gaze, lined in charcoal, observed everything without judgment, reflecting the stillness of Yeon’s highland temples and the tact of someone trained to turn silence into strength.
"In the name of Hwan-Je, I, Jun Yu-hwa of Yeon, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."
Her voice never rose above a conversational tone, yet no one missed a word.
When she returned to her seat, Rajamada of Runawijaya rose in her place, and the contrast was immediate.
The crown prince of Runawijaya stood fiercely like a flame carved into gold, the air around him thick with the scent of sandalwood and sovereignty. He wore a songket tunic in deep earth tones—rich browns and sea blue—that shimmered with gold thread, depicting intricate patterns of the Bakunawa, the great sea serpent, and the Singha, a mythical guardian of Doi Ang Luang, symbols of power and protection. Across his chest hangs the legendary keris, Bakti Samudra, a proof of his legitimacy. Atop his head, he wore a "Tanjak Satria", a regal headdress woven from gold threads and adorned with intricate motifs of his kingdom’s history, each fold representing a different era of valor.
"Ring asmaning Sang Hyang Damakala, ingsun Rajamada, putra Runawijaya, sumumpah satya tan hana wwang ingingkari ring siddhānta Kranda Somite."
The prince resumed his seat with practiced composure.
The next to step forward were two figures of great weight. One represented the Queendom of Rosmayne, the nation most embroiled in the questions surrounding Randia’s whereabouts. The other came from the farthest reaches of the east, beyond the ceaseless waves of the great Bandau Ocean. A queen cherished by her people, who ruled with grace even under the pressure of scandal. And beside her, the chancellor of an empire so old and vast its emperors were said to descend from dragons, and its mandates etched into the bones of the world.
Catalina Rosalia of Rosmayne rose from her chair.
She appeared as though painted by the very muses of grace. Her gown billowed like a soft breeze, crafted from rich brocade and velvet in moonlit lilac and soft pearl, the fabric embroidered with intricate silver threads that caught the light. Her rose-colored hair, almost pink in hue, cascaded down in soft waves, framed by a circlet of polished opal that glimmered gently. Her emerald green eyes, bright and clear, reflected the beauty of her homeland’s meadows. From her sleeves trailed the faint perfume of blooming petals—lavender, heather, and a touch of wild rose—the very essence of Rosmayne’s famed sea of flowers. Her presence did not command the room through power, but through poise, and those who looked upon her could not help but soften their voices and temper their thoughts.
"In the name of Aine, I, Catalina Rosalia of Rosmayne, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."
When she sat, another figure rose almost immediately.
Guan Xin, the venerable Chancellor of the Xin Empire, dons a majestic hanfu in pristine white, the color symbolizing purity and wisdom. The robe is richly embroidered with delicate black thread, depicting the fenghuang, mythical birds that represent harmony and virtue, along the sleeves and collar. A black belt ties the robe at his waist, and a simple silver pendant shaped like a lotus—a symbol of purity and strength—rests at his neck, adding a final touch of understated authority.
Age had touched his features without diminishing them. His eyes remained sharp. The sort of eyes that missed very little and forgot even less.
"In the name of Huang Bao, I, Guan Xin of Xin, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."
After the representatives of the Queendom of Rosmayne and the Xin Empire, the next delegates stir mixed reactions. The first comes from a nation of mages, known for their reverence of magic and unrivaled mastery of it—a power that both intrigues and unsettles the other nations. The second is a represented Leadsea, a maritime confederation whose relationship with international law remained a subject of vigorous and often entertaining debate.
"In the name of Justicius, I, Thane Lightwood of Sindris, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."
Thane Underwood, an old man of quiet power, steps forward draped in deep verdant robes, the fabric embroidered with intricate golden thread depicting the stars, constellations, and arcane symbols. His cloak, of fine velvet, falls gracefully to the floor, adorned with arcane motifs representing celestial bodies, their alignments forming an astrological map across his shoulders.
"In the name of The Sea Mother, I, Emmanuel Valentino of Leadsea, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."
Emmanuel Valentino wears a mantón de corsario, a weathered navy cloak with golden thread embroidery that drapes loosely over his shoulders, its edges frayed from constant sea winds. Beneath, a cream-colored camisa de marino, a loose shirt with billowing sleeves, its fabric light and breathable, perfect for the high seas. His waist is cinched with a dark leather belt, adorned with a large, silver buckle shaped like a wave. His pants, dark and fitted, tuck into worn leather boots that rise just above his ankles. Around his neck, he wears a medalla de Mututa, a pendant shaped like an octopus, symbolizing his bond with the sea. His entire outfit looks so out of place in Fal' Athrandor, yet somehow, it retains his dashing appearance.
The final stretch of the oath brought forth two delegates whose homelands could scarcely have been more different.
One represented Underpoint, a city-state whose wealth flowed from forge fires, steel, and craftsmanship refined over countless generations. The other came from Helden, where divine scripture carried as much authority as royal decree and where miracles were treated as matters of routine administration.
Godin Ironhand rose first.
The dwarf stood barely taller than the table itself when compared to some of the human delegates present, yet few would have described him as small. He possessed the dense solidity of a mountain compressed into humanoid form. His clothing was practical by dwarven standards and almost offensively plain by elven ones. Dark wool, reinforced leather, and runic stitching composed most of the ensemble.
Every piece served a purpose.
That alone made it expensive.
The runes embroidered along his sleeves glowed faintly beneath the hall's ambient light. Their function remained unclear to most observers, though several mages around the table found themselves studying them with professional curiosity.
"In the name of Aestund, I, Godin Ironhand of Underpoint, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."
His oath was brief. Much like the dwarf himself, it seemed disinterested in unnecessary embellishment.
After the dwarf, Sonya of Helden rose.
The edges of her robe were intricately embroidered with silver thread, each woven with undeniable reverence. A deep blue stole, trimmed with golden threads, hung gracefully from her shoulders, symbolizing her holy office. A gold medallion, encrusted with small gems, rested at her chest, the sigil of the theocracy—a silver chalice surrounded by divine vines. Despite her face that is subtly veiled with organza, her faith exudes the humility central to her vows.
"In the name of Justicius, I, Sonya of Helden, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."
Her voice faded into the stillness of the hall, and Sonya returned to her seat.
Only one oath remained.
Nicholas Belsvan rose from his chair.
The movement was enough to draw every eye in the chamber.
Aramia occupied a peculiar place in the minds of the world. Depending on whom one asked, it was either the greatest guarantor of stability on the continent or the greatest threat to it. Entire kingdoms prospered beneath its trade routes, while others still remembered the banners of Aramian legions advancing across their borders. Admiration and resentment followed the empire with equal persistence, often residing in the same heart.
Nicholas himself gave little indication that he noticed the attention. He adjusted the sleeve of his coat, stepped forward, and regarded the assembly with the calm expression of a man attending routine business rather than standing before the most influential gathering of the age.
"In the name of Omzun, I, Nicholas Belsvan of Aramia, swear my allegiance to the result of the Grand Summit."