The Veltharian envoy's caravan rolled through Lumora's marble streets, the clatter of hooves and wheels a sharp contrast to the city's serene hum of prayers and bells.
Duke Arvandus Vael, a towering figure in his late forties, sat in the lead carriage, his velvet cloak of deep blue trimmed with silver, the golden eagle crest of Veltharia glinting on his breast.
His sharp gray eyes scanned the Holy Palace's spires through the silk-draped window, their golden runes shimmering in the midday sun, a testament to Aeloria's divine might.
The Veltharian Empire, for all its military prowess and arcane mastery, hungered for greater influence, and Emperor Lysander's ambition burned hotter than any forge.
Arvandus, handpicked for this delicate mission, was tasked with forging a connection with the Holy Empire of Aeloria, a neutral realm whose faith-based power dwarfed even Veltharia's legions.
Success could elevate his house to new heights; failure would cost him the emperor's favor—and possibly his head.
Beside him, Kael Vaelor, the illegitimate prince, sat in silence, his posture rigid, his dark curls tucked under a plain cloak, its eagle crest smaller, almost faded, a subtle mark of his outcast status.
At fourteen and a half, Kael was lean and sharp-featured, his emerald eyes guarded, his bronze skin a shade darker from Veltharia's sunlit training yards.
The journey to Lumora was a rare chance to prove himself beyond the imperial court's scorn, yet the Empress Dowager, his cruel stepmother, had orchestrated his inclusion as a scapegoat.
If the alliance faltered, Kael's name would bear the blame, his illegitimacy a convenient excuse for her machinations. He kept his hands clasped, his calloused palms hidden, enduring the weight of his position, his heart a fortress against the whispers that had shaped him since childhood.
As the carriages passed through the palace gates, carved with Aeloria's radiant sun, Arvandus leaned back, his gloved fingers drumming on the armrest, his voice low but resonant.
"Lumora's grandeur is no myth," he said, his tone a mix of awe and calculation. "These spires, this marble—it's a fortress of faith, not just stone. The palace alone could rival Velthari's citadel, and they've held neutrality for centuries. The emperor's vision is bold, but this will be no simple negotiation."
He glanced at Kael, his gray eyes narrowing, a faint sneer curling his lip. "You, boy, will keep your mouth shut unless I command otherwise. Your presence is a formality, nothing more."
Kael's jaw tightened, but his voice was steady, his Veltharian accent clipped.
"Understood, Duke Arvandus," he said, his emerald eyes fixed on the window, where pilgrims in white robes knelt, their prayers a soft tide.
Inside, he swallowed the sting of the duke's disdain, the familiar ache of being a prince in name only, his mother's lowborn blood a stain the imperial court never forgave.
The Empress Dowager's cold smile, her order to join the envoy, echoed in his mind:
"Prove your worth, or prove your failure, Kael. Either way, Veltharia wins."
He endured, as he always had, his resolve a quiet flame, fueled by dreams of rising above his birthright's chains.
The carriage halted in the palace's grand courtyard, its cobblestones polished to a mirror sheen, flanked by star-shaped oaks and roses blooming in divine hues.
Holy Knights in silver armor, their crests gleaming, stood at attention, their gazes sharp but neutral, a reflection of Aeloria's impartiality.
Arvandus stepped out, his cloak sweeping, his bearing regal, every inch the Veltharian duke. Kael followed, his movements precise, his cloak less ostentatious, his presence a shadow to the duke's radiance.
The air was cool, scented with incense and dew, and the palace loomed, its spires piercing the sky, its domes shimmering like pearls, its grandeur a silent proclamation of Aeloria's untouchable power.
Arvandus paused, his eyes tracing the frescoed arches above the courtyard, their depictions of Aeloria's miracles glowing faintly.
"Magnificent," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. "No wonder they've stayed neutral—such wealth, such faith, they need no allies. Yet the emperor believes we can sway them."
He turned to Kael, his tone sharpening, cold as a blade. "You'll follow my lead, boy, and watch your tongue. One misstep, and you'll shame Veltharia more than your birth already has. The Empress Dowager's patience is thin, and mine is thinner."
Kael's fingers twitched, but he nodded, his voice calm, betraying none of the anger coiling within.
"I'll do my duty, Duke," he said, his emerald eyes meeting Arvandus's briefly, a flicker of defiance buried deep.
The duke's sneer deepened, but he turned away, dismissing Kael as one might a servant. Kael exhaled silently, his heart steady, the mockery a familiar weight.
He'd endured worse—court whispers, his half-siblings' scorn, the Empress Dowager's calculated cruelty. This mission, impossible as it seemed, was a chance, however slim, to carve his name beyond "bastard prince."
He straightened, his cloak catching the breeze, and followed Arvandus toward the palace's entrance, where a delegation awaited.
High Priestess Mirene, a woman in her fifties with cropped gray hair and piercing blue eyes, greeted them, her white robe embroidered with golden threads, her staff topped with a crystal sun.
Beside her stood High Priest Tormund, a stout man with a ruddy face and a neatly trimmed beard, his green robe flowing, his smile broad but measured.
"Duke Arvandus Vael, Prince Kael Vaelor,"
Mirene said, her voice clear, her bow precise, Aeloria's neutrality evident in her tone.
"Welcome to the Holy Palace. His Holiness, Pope Seraphius IV, awaits you. Your journey was smooth, I trust?"
Arvandus inclined his head, his smile polished, his gray eyes calculating.
"High Priestess, High Priest," he said, his voice smooth as silk.
"The journey was tolerable, though Veltharia's seas pale beside Lumora's radiance. Your palace is a marvel, a fitting seat for Aeloria's light."
His words were diplomatic, but his gaze swept the courtyard, assessing, as if weighing the empire's wealth against Veltharia's ambition.
Tormund's smile widened, his ruddy cheeks crinkling, unfazed by the duke's grandeur.
"Kind words, Duke," he said, his voice warm but blunt. "Lumora's got its charm, but it's the faith that keeps it standing. You're here for… what, exactly? Veltharia's not known for sightseeing."
His tone was teasing, but his eyes were keen, probing, and Arvandus's smile tightened, a flicker of irritation passing over his face.
"A discussion, High Priest," Arvandus said, his voice cool, sidestepping the question.
"His Holiness will hear our purpose soon enough. For now, we seek rest and your hospitality."
He gestured to Kael, his tone dismissive. "The prince will accompany me, as protocol demands."
Kael stepped forward, his cloak rustling, his emerald eyes meeting Mirene's, his bow precise.
"Thank you for your welcome," he said, his voice quiet but clear, his Veltharian accent softening the words.
Mirene's gaze lingered on him, her blue eyes softening slightly, as if sensing the weight he carried, but she said nothing, gesturing toward the palace's entrance.
"This way, please,"
Mirene said, her robe swaying as she led them through the grand archway, its marble etched with suns and stars.
Tormund followed, tossing Kael a curious glance, his smile hinting at mischief.
"Quiet lad, aren't you, Prince?" he said, his voice low, teasing. "Veltharia raise you all so solemn, or is it the long ride?"
Kael's lips twitched, a faint smile breaking his guard, but he kept his tone neutral.
"The ride, perhaps," he said, his voice soft, matching Tormund's levity. "Or the scenery."
He glanced at Arvandus's back, the quip subtle, and Tormund chuckled, stifling the sound with a cough, his eyes twinkling with approval.
The palace's halls were a labyrinth of grandeur, their marble floors polished to a mirror, their walls alive with frescoes of Aeloria's miracles, their glow casting soft light.
Servants in white silks moved silently, their eyes respectful but alert, while Holy Knights patrolled, their armor clinking faintly.
Arvandus walked with purpose, his cloak a dark sweep, but his eyes darted, marveling at the chandeliers of crystal spires, the tapestries woven with divine threads, the air humming with latent energy.
"This is no mere temple," he murmured to himself, his voice low, almost covetous. "Aeloria's wealth could fund a war—or secure an empire."
Kael, trailing behind, heard the whisper, his emerald eyes narrowing, his heart uneasy.
Veltharia's ambition was no secret, but the duke's tone hinted at something deeper, a personal hunger that mirrored the emperor's.
He kept silent, his steps measured, his gaze taking in the palace's details—the runes etched into doorframes, the faint scent of incense, the priests' quiet confidence.
Aeloria's neutrality, rooted since its founding, made this mission a near-impossible task, a truth the Empress Dowager had exploited, sending Kael as her pawn.
Yet, the palace's light stirred something in him—a flicker of hope, a sense that even an outcast could find a path here, if he endured long enough.
Mirene led them to a guest wing, its doors carved with oak leaves, its chambers spacious and adorned with silken drapes, ebony furniture, and vases of roses.
"Your accommodations," she said, her voice warm, gesturing to the rooms. "Rest, refresh, and we'll escort you to His Holiness's study at dusk. Aeloria's hospitality is yours."
She bowed, Tormund echoing her, and they withdrew, leaving Arvandus and Kael alone in the corridor, the maids waiting discreetly at its end.
Arvandus turned to Kael, his gray eyes cold, his voice a venomous hiss.
"You spoke out of turn, boy," he said, his sneer cutting.
"A jest with that priest? You're here to stand mute, not play courtier. Your blood's taint enough without your tongue adding to it. The Empress Dowager expects failure, and I'll not let your clumsiness drag me down."
He stepped closer, his presence oppressive, his glove brushing Kael's cloak.
"Watch yourself, or Veltharia will bury you deeper than your mother's grave."
Kael's fists clenched, his nails biting his palms, but his face remained impassive, his emerald eyes steady.
"I'll keep my place, Duke," he said, his voice low, swallowing the anger, the humiliation, the memory of his mother's gentle hands.
He endured, as he always had, his dreams of heroism a distant star, his resolve a quiet fire.
Arvandus scoffed, turning away, his cloak snapping, and entered his chamber, the door slamming shut.
Kael stood alone, the corridor silent, his heart heavy but unbroken. He entered his own room, its simplicity a relief, its window offering a view of Lumora's spires, their light a beacon in his storm.
He set his cloak aside, his fingers brushing the eagle crest, and sat by the bed, his thoughts a tangle of duty and ambition.
The Holy Empire's neutrality was a wall, but walls had cracks, and Kael, for all his lack of power, had learned to find them. He'd survive this mission, not for the empress, but for himself, to prove his worth beyond a bastard's name.
At dusk, Mirene returned, her robe glowing faintly, her staff tapping softly.
"Duke Arvandus, Prince Kael," she said, her voice calm, her blue eyes neutral. "His Holiness awaits."
Arvandus emerged, his chamber pristine, his bearing regal, his smile masking his earlier venom.
Kael followed, his cloak neat, his emerald eyes sharp, ready to face the Pope's study, where the first move in Veltharia's gambit would unfold.