The royal court of Faeloria buzzed with noble tension. The long-anticipated Summit of Accord between Faeloria and the Beastmen Kingdom was held in the Hall of Celestial Mirrors, where magic-refined crystal walls reflected every movement like truth itself.
Seated on either side of a gleaming obsidian table were the most powerful figures of each nation.
On one end: King Alvion Croft, Serenil's father, flanked by court ministers and magical advisors.
On the other: High King Garros Nyveris, a towering lion beastman whose fur was silvered by age and war, beside him sat his daughter—Princess Hestia Nyveris, dressed in a powder blue gown, her long twin-tailed hair tied neatly with sapphire bands.
Hestia's bright blue eyes scanned the chamber with cheerful curiosity, unaware—or perhaps choosing not to see—the icy stares from certain Faelorian nobles. Still, she smiled and sipped her tea gracefully, her rabbit ears twitching with excitement.
Serenil stood behind his father, motionless, a marble statue cloaked in prince's silk.
"Let the record state," announced Faeloria's Grand Chancellor, "that this proposed union is solely to avoid bloodshed and secure the peace between our kingdoms."
King Garros growled lightly. "My daughter is delicate. But she is a princess of the Nyveris bloodline. She deserves respect."
"She shall have it," King Alvion said with restrained firmness. "As shall your people."
Serenil's gaze flickered downward. Hestia caught his eye. She gave him a small wave. He bowed—barely.
His expression betrayed nothing. But in his heart, cold steel formed another layer of emotional armor.
The royal court of Faeloria buzzed with noble tension. The long-anticipated Summit of Accord between Faeloria and the Beastmen Kingdom was held in the Hall of Celestial Mirrors, where magic-refined crystal walls reflected every movement like truth itself.
Seated on either side of a gleaming obsidian table were the most powerful figures of each nation.
On one end: King Alvion Croft, Serenil's father, flanked by court ministers and magical advisors.
On the other: High King Garros Nyveris, a towering lion beastman whose fur was silvered by age and war, beside him sat his daughter—Princess Hestia Nyveris, dressed in a powder blue gown, her long twin-tailed hair tied neatly with sapphire bands.
Hestia's bright blue eyes scanned the chamber with cheerful curiosity, unaware—or perhaps choosing not to see—the icy stares from certain Faelorian nobles. Still, she smiled and sipped her tea gracefully, her rabbit ears twitching with excitement.
Serenil stood behind his father, motionless, a marble statue cloaked in prince's silk.
"Let the record state," announced Faeloria's Grand Chancellor, "that this proposed union is solely to avoid bloodshed and secure the peace between our kingdoms."
King Garros growled lightly. "My daughter is delicate. But she is a princess of the Nyveris bloodline. She deserves respect."
"She shall have it," King Alvion said with restrained firmness. "As shall your people."
Serenil's gaze flickered downward. Hestia caught his eye. She gave him a small wave. He bowed—barely.
His expression betrayed nothing. But in his heart, cold steel formed another layer of emotional armor.