"Royalty consists not in vain pomp, but in great virtues.”

- Agesilaus II

“The Lady Seraphina de Sariens of the Sariens Duchy!” the King’s steward proclaimed as the doors opened, his voice echoing through. She half-expected a jarring creak to break the hush, but the silence persisted, more unsettling than any ominous groan of hinges could have been.

Her first step into the Royal Court’s hall was like entering a realm sculpted from myth. Gold—the ever-precious metal—dominated almost every surface. She had seen this before in the game, but now, seeing the lavishness and splendor with her own eyes, she felt an almost dizzying awe. The wealth of entire nations seemed pillaged and poured into this single, place.

The vaulted ceiling soared overhead, fashioned like a celestial cathedral. Seraphic statues of alabaster angels appeared to ascend toward hidden heavens, their ethereal wings plated with shimmering gold. Across the walls and columns flowed intricate scriptures in homage to the Goddess, each holy verse enshrined in delicate gilded inlays. Tapestries and banners of every noble House in the Kingdom of Aranthia cascaded downward from poles along the walls, their vibrant colors and crests woven with grand artistry. And there, in a place of revered prominence to the right of the royal throne, hung the emblem of her own House—wisterias in gentle bloom—proclaiming her rightful place amidst all of this splendor.

To the left of the throne, the heraldry of the Church of Avaria hung in ominous, solemn glory: a sword and dagger crossed above a golden chalice. The sight of it gave Seraphina pause, but only for a moment—something else soon drew her gaze.

A small movement at the edge of the gathered nobles caught her eye. There, her plump friend Michelie dared to break all protocol by offering an enthusiastic wave. It was an earnest but mortifying display, and Seraphina’s face warmed with embarrassment. The taller and more dignified Rashana swiftly jabbed Michelie with an elbow—an unsubtle reminder to behave. Michelie shot her friend a quick glare before ceasing her inappropriate greeting.

Though the attempt at moral support touched her, Seraphina’s stomach twisted. This was the Court of Aranthia, and the slightest breach of decorum could be costly. Struggling to maintain composure, she turned her attention back to the throne and the one who occupied it.

There he sat—King Elidion—an aging warrior of her father’s generation. Legends claimed that he and her sire had once been formidable knights, yet time had settled heavily on his shoulders. The royal garments draped about him like loose sheets, his once-powerful frame reduced to something thin and fragile. He resembled a weary scarecrow, his gaunt face etched with the burden of kingship. One bony hand grasped the scepter of Aranthia, crowned with a ruby the size of a clenched fist. The royal crown itself seemed to weigh him down, his neck straining beneath the glittering circlet.

The King was flanked by his Royal Guard—those so-called elite warriors of the realm—resplendent in their ceremonial armor. Their eyes fell upon Sergeant Frest, one of her escorts, who wore a harness taken in combat against them. Their collective sneers betrayed a hint of shame, a silent reminder of their painful loss.

Seraphina assessed the King with quiet resolve. Someday, she would relieve him of that crown—a kindness, really. Perhaps, if she were feeling merciful, she would allow him a gentle exile on some distant, windswept isle, where his name would fade into memory while she claimed the throne he no longer had the strength to hold.

But those were dreams for another day.

To the King’s left stood Archbishop Faron, a man whose stature seemed carved from solid stone. Short and nearly as broad as he was tall, he presented an almost square silhouette. His powerful jawline, broad shoulders, and arms bulging thick as his own thighs only heightened that impression. He looked more like a village blacksmith than the esteemed leader of the kingdom’s most eminent religious order.

“Your presence is acknowledged and welcomed within the hallowed halls of this Royal Court, Lady Seraphina de Sariens,” intoned King Elidion, his voice surprisingly strong despite his weak frame. “You may approach.”

With almost exaggerated slowness, Seraphina and her entourage moved toward the throne. With no small amount of pride, she saw that her father’s household knights wore arms and armor of similar quality to the Royal Knights, just more of a martial aspect and far less ostentatious. Two of them struggled with a package she had brought for the King, a small piece of theatre she had planned.

“It is my solemn honor to appear before you, Your Most Gracious Majesty,” Seraphina replied, giving the King a deep and perfectly executed formal curtsy. Eloise a pace behind her did likewise a moment later, while her honor guard dropped to one knee. “I come as the representative of the Duchy of Sariens, entrusted by my noble lineage to renew our vows of fealty and reaffirm our steadfast loyalty to the Crown and its righteous dominion.”

The King inclined his head, and for a moment the young girl thought it would fall off his head.

“It pleases us that you have finally made your way to be in our presence. We note that you stand alone, Lady Seraphina. Tell us, what has become of your gloried father, Lord Anatoli, and the beautiful Lady Anaselena? Have they withheld their presence in this courtly assembly?” Elidion replied, almost like the script in the game.

At the mention of Seraphina’s mother’s name, the King’s expression changed ever so subtly, hints of evil behind his tired eyes.

“It grieves me, Your Majesty, to report that they are engaged in critical duties within our borders,” Seraphina explained, the smallest of smiles curving her lips. “A grave blight afflicts our lands. Foreigners, hailing from beyond the Empire’s edges, have trespassed upon your sacred realm, bringing with them banditry, unrest, and the silent whisper of corruption. They stain our fair fields and woods and threaten the poisoning the blood of the nation, sowing discord where harmony once flourished.”