Seeing Randia grow more and more restless, despite his calm words, Viena’s own unease took root. There was something she had always wanted to ask — something she had bitten back countless times in the four months they had journeyed together, their feet carrying them over fourteen hundred kilometers of wind-beaten countryside.
Maybe tonight, at last, Randia would answer her truthfully.
“Hey,” she asked quietly, “why do you dislike people so much? Is being alone really that fun? Don’t you ever get lonely?”
“I’m not lonely,” Randia replied, eyes fixed on the dim horizon. “I simply seek solitude.”
“Huh? What’s the difference?”
“Solitude is a choice.”
Viena scrunched her nose. “If you’re always traveling from place to place, being away from people doesn’t sound like much of a choice.”
“That premise dissolves the second I decide to settle somewhere. That choice is mine. That’s why it’s solitude.”
She didn’t catch all his complicated words, but she grasped enough to know she didn’t like his answer. It felt like an unfair rule in a game only he understood — and like any stubborn child, Viena refused to lose even an argument.
“How long have you been traveling? Before I came with you, I mean.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Just answer me!” Viena jabbed the end of her skewer against his thigh with an impish glare.
“…Fifteen years, give or take.”
“And the longest you’ve stayed in one place?”
“Fifteen… days? Who bothers remembering such trifles?”
“Aha! See? At this rate, you’ll never settle anywhere!”
Randia sighed heavily. “What exactly are you getting at?”
Without ceremony, Viena grabbed his hand — the one holding the last skewer — and took a bite from the top slice of roasted quail, chewing happily before speaking with her mouth half full.
“I’m saying: if you really aren’t lonely, and you’re truly chasing solitude, why don’t you prove it by choosing to stay put for once?”
He scoffed, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
“I see. You’ve grown sharper with words. This is all just a roundabout way of asking to stay here longer, isn’t it?”
“Exactly! I knew you’d understand. Look around — This mega city has everything we need!”
“No.”
“But why?!”
Their quarrel stretched on, light and insistent, for the better part of half an hour. It might have gone longer if not for the subtle shift in the air — a murmur rippled through the crowd nearby. People gathered quickly, falling into a long line along the main road, their voices lifting with anticipation.
Then came the glint of steel and the rhythmic clatter of hooves. Rosmayne knights rode through the city’s main gate, parting the crowd with solemn precision.
“Papa! Everyone’s going there! Let’s go see!”
“There’s no reason to—”
“Papa!” Viena’s indignant cry left Randia no choice. With a long-suffering breath, he swept her into his arms and trudged after the crowd, her excited chatter tugging him faster.
When they reached the edge of the gathering, Randia set her down and quietly lowered both their hoods. Best not to draw the gaze of patrolling knights.
The cavalcade soon emerged into view — a slow, deliberate procession of fifteen carriages rolling down the paved road. Twelve of them bore different banners, each embroidered with foreign patterns that only seasoned travelers like Randia would recognize.
His breath caught, his voice low and strained.
“That…”
“What is it? I can’t see anything from down here!”
Viena scrambled up onto his shoulders just as a fanfare of trumpets split the air. The brass tones soared, rich and commanding, their intricate melody unmistakable to any true citizen of Rosmayne:
supremely honored guests had come to the inner capital.
“Greetings, O honorable Citizens of Flowers!”
The herald’s voice rang clear from atop her steed, regal and exultant.
“Send forth your cheers and your brightest smiles to our friends from afar! Welcome them with hearts aglow and spirits high! Behold — the delegations of peace from every sovereign realm! The ambassadors of twelve lands!”
“There they are! Come quickly, uncle!”
“I hope this means no more wars, now that we’ve opened our hands to each other.”
“The knights are so cool!”
“Hmph. Outsiders in our land? The queen’s lost her wits completely.”
The square brimmed with giddy voices. As the herald lowered her standard, the air bloomed with music.
Tambourines jangled in deft hands, their cadence bright and playful. Fleurin’s traditional bombards joined in — reed and brass twining in quickening tempo, spiraling the orchestra into a zestful frenzy. Then came the epinettes and the dancers: spinning, swaying, enchanting the square with every flick of skirt and twirl of wrist.
The finest troubadours of the City of Flowers seized the moment, their strings and songs rising bold for their lieges and their land.
Viena’s hands clapped instinctively, mirroring the tempo with a child’s easy joy. She had heard minstrels before — traveling bards had wandered even into remote Londerstead — but nothing like this. Nothing with such scale, such flawless harmony.
Now, like all the others pressed close around her, she was spellbound.
Lost in the flourishing joy.
Blue-white dresses shimmered as they spun. Metallic instruments gleamed beneath the afternoon light. Bright roses nestled in every player’s pocket. The stomp of marching boots beat like a steady drum beneath it all. The senior opera singer’s tenor voice unfurled like silk over the crowd, and the dancers’ frilled costumes flared and fluttered as they spun.
It was as though every performer wore their heart and soul as their attire.
Randia smiled faintly.
“That’s the Polkan Dance. From Szechia Province in the west. They’re trained for this — their bodies are used to the rhythm and motion. They won’t get dizzy.” A pause. “Probably.”
Viena’s questions tumbled one after another, her wonder irrepressible. And though Randia’s chest still felt tight with unease, the sight of her radiant joy lightened something inside him. Perhaps, just for now, it was best to let the current carry them.
From the carriages, many ambassadors waved warmly to the gathered Rosmaynians. Some leaned so far from their windows they nearly toppled out, eager to bask in the crowd’s cheers.
Yet amid all this revelry, one carriage stood apart.
The last in the procession. Its windows remained shuttered tight.
No hand lifted in greeting. No glance emerged to meet the people’s eyes.
A strange, cold gesture on a day crafted to display nothing but warmth.
The cavalcade pressed onward, their path clear and unbroken, until they reached the grand marble stairs of Rosmayne’s most storied marvel — The Thousand Mirror Royal Palace.
A palace where a single reflection shattered into a thousand more.
A palace where no secret stayed hidden long.
“The honorable ambassadors will now disembark and proceed to the next agenda,” the herald called once more. “The squires shall escort you inside.”
Amid the milling crowd at the foot of the grand stairs, the delegates alighted one by one. Each ambassador was greeted with the warmest cheers — a welcome rehearsed and cultivated by Rosmayne’s officials for many months prior. The people did as they were taught, their applause rising like a steady tide.
When the time came for the last carriage to yield its occupant, the sun slipped behind a veil of clouds.
The once-blue sky dulled, grey gathering slow and thick.
A cold wind stirred, sharpening into a gale.
Babies wailed without cause, their cries shrill and sudden. They flailed and kicked as though gripped by some unseen dread.
The cheers and laughter faltered into murmurs — then hushed into silence.
All eyes fixed on the carriage door.
It creaked open, slow and deliberate.
Above it, the tangled banner atop the carriage snapped free at last, caught full in the rising wind.
Scarlet unfurled against grey sky — the infamous red flag.
No more questions needed asking.
Upon it, stark and unmistakable, loomed the four-winged black Heyrim.
A symbol etched into every heart of Seraina dwellers — even the most juvenile knew it on sight, for better or far, far worse.
It felt as though something seeped from that widening gap — something unseen but sensed.
Malice.
Malevolent.
A soul that should have never set its sight upon the world.
Then, from the dim carriage, the shrouded figure emerged.
Veils fell away.
And with a single step onto Rosmayne’s soil, fathomless terror broke loose.
A wave of force darker than shadow rippled out, surging on the wind. His blood-red cape cracked like a banner of war.
A scarred face — carved by a thousand battles.
Eyes like twin voids — endless, lightless, devouring.
Every inch of him spoke of conquest, of massacre, of dominion carved in blood and iron.
“Papa…” Viena’s voice shrank to a whisper. She clutched Randia’s sleeve tighter, half her face buried in his shoulder.
“I don’t like him. Who is that ambassador?”
.
.
.
Randia’s throat felt dry as old paper. His jaw clenched.
“…He is not an ambassador,” he said quietly.
“He is an emperor.”
Most of the crowd still did not know his name.
They didn’t need to.
In his presence, raw instinct overrode thought.
Spines bent unbidden. Knees sank to the earth without command.
Guards trembled in their steel, palms slick and breath shallow.
Viena pressed closer, her curious gaze peeking out despite her fear.
Across the masses, the primal mind awoke — freeze, flee, or fight.
Danger incarnate stood before them.
The young squire assigned to escort the figure gasped, breath ragged, as though choking on dread.
Then, as Ethelar Aramid — for that was his name — descended the carriage steps, something in the boy snapped.
Driven by instinct more than duty, the squire ripped his sword free and lunged, screaming with all the force his lungs could summon.
[Ting.]
A single, clear note rang through the square — sharp as struck iron, crystalline as glass.
The squire froze mid-lunge. His body locked rigid, as if caught by unseen chains.
A new voice carried over the crowd — poised, level, unbowed.
It rang like bellmetal against the storm.
“Ethelar Aramid, Former Champion of Omzun.
Greatest conqueror of history.
Mightiest and undisputed Monarch of Aramia — sole and above all.
I welcome you to Fleurein.”
From the grand stairs of the Thousand Mirror Palace, she descended.
Queen Catalina Rosalia — sovereign of Rosmayne.
Her rose-colored hair glinted against the overcast sky, her emerald gaze unwavering.
Where her presence touched, steel steadied.
Soldiers found their footing once more.
The crowd lifted their heads, spines straightening in quiet shame for their faltering.
Catalina’s emerald eyes rested on the frozen squire, then returned coolly to Ethelar.
“I trust you will forgive us the… nervous approach of the young squire,” she said, her voice silk wrapped around steel.
“Though I must note — had we been informed of your attendance beforehand, I would have arranged a more appropriate and thoughtful greeting.”
A crown speaks only to a crown.
And now, at last, two stood face to face.
“T-That… that is Ethelar Aramid?”
“I heard the emperor of Aramia was a monster. Through and through — no mercy, no soul.”
“I’ll never forget… what the Aramians did to my village.”
What had begun as whispers of awe curdled swiftly into murmurs of bitterness.
And murmurs, in mere moments, swelled into something fiercer.
Clamors broke loose — raw, ragged, and rising.
Curses spat through clenched teeth.
Trembling voices cracked open and spilled stories of ruin.
Mothers screamed of sons burned in nameless battles.
Widows wept for husbands lost beyond distant borders, never buried, never returned.
Children—barely more than babes—shouted with voices too young to hold such grief, but orphaned all the same.
The crowd seethed, their pain unearthing like long-buried embers flaring to life.
They surged forward, shouting down the formalities of the day.
Cries rose: Leave our homeland! Out with the butcher! No tyrant walks here!
Randia’s breath slowed. His jaw flexed once before setting tight.
Too volatile.
Too fast.
His eyes flicked over the crowd — veins of fury spidering outward, unpredictable and near the point of rupture.
He shifted his grip on Viena’s shoulder, lowering his stance slightly, protective but unpanicked.
“Viena,” he murmured under his breath, keeping his voice level, “stay close. Don’t let go of my sleeve.”
It might already be too late for perfect safety — but it wasn’t too late to move.
Randia knew the smell of a crowd tipping into chaos.
He’d seen it before.
And now, the wisest course was clear: withdraw before the storm breaks.