Sidius folk have never liked visiting the New Capital.

The messenger thought to himself while tremblingly lifting his head, his eyes fixed ahead.

He now stood in the throne room of the New Capital’s King Elvis. A long carpet stretched from the throne to the bronze-oak doors at the hall’s end. The vast hall could hold over a thousand people, facing south with towering narrow windows on its eastern and western walls. At the far end, two massive dragon skulls hung on the wall—legend claimed they belonged to the Bronze Dragon King and Golden Dragon King. Beneath them, the Elvis Throne stood atop an iron dais.

Upon that iron throne, a middle-aged man in silver armor lazily propped his chin on his hand, gazing down at the messenger. His build spoke less of an emperor and more of a warrior: a burly frame, broad shoulders, a thick neck, and powerful arms. His hair was cropped short, his beard neatly trimmed. A black-and-gold crown rested on his head, radiating an ominous glow.

"His Imperial Majesty, Isaerel Elvis—Great Conqueror, Protector of the Alliance."

The messenger bowed deeply, drawing a wax-sealed letter from his pouch.

"My liege, Duke Edward commands me to deliver this to you. Please..."

"A truce proposal?"

Isaerel cut him off before he could finish. Waving dismissively like shooing a fly, his deep voice boomed:

"Very well. I’m aware. During Iris’s birthday celebrations, my armies won’t advance a step south. Relay that to Sidius."

The emperor’s swift agreement—or perhaps suspicion of a trap—left the messenger frozen at the foot of the throne. Only after a long pause did he slowly rise, bowing again.

"Thank you for your reply. I shall depart immediately to inform my lord."

With that, he fled the throne room as if escaping death. As the heavy doors swung shut behind him, Isaerel sighed, gripping the throne’s armrests to heave himself upright.

A voice then echoed from behind the throne:

"Is this sufficient, Your Majesty?"

Isaerel turned. A hooded figure in black robes emerged from the shadows, leaning on a staff.

"Aston?"

Aston Higgins—the "Strongest Mage of the Century" in Alliance propaganda—served as both Head Lecturer of Raven Tree Tower and the emperor’s chief strategist, wielding power rivaling a prime minister. Isaerel said nothing, his gaze drifting to the twin dragon skulls behind him. After a long silence, he murmured:

"Of course. I never intended to conquer the south before the celebrations. Those two duchies are hardly barbarian tribes."

His hand drifted to the iron throne, gently caressing the cold steel as if touching a delicate maiden. A dreamy smile spread across his face, lost in reverie.

"My orders to the southern garrison were clear: ‘Take Precipice Fortress at any cost.’ It guards the only safe passage into the south. Other routes? Ravines and jagged rocks—impassable for armies."

He patted the throne, turning to Aston with hands rubbing together in anticipation.

"These celebration days will let me repair and fortify Precipice Fortress. When war resumes, we’ll hold the high ground. My two knightly orders can then march deep into the Duchy of Sidius unchallenged."

"Your strategy is flawless, Your Majesty," Aston replied respectfully. But soon, the mage lifted his head. Eyes clouded from decades steeped in magic glowed like lanterns in the night, unnerving in their intensity.

"Yet Duke Sidius proposed this truce so hastily... I suspect treachery. You should be cautious."

"Treachery? Hah!" Isaerel slapped his armored chest, grinning. "Let assassins come. I’ll tear their heads off myself."

Seeing the emperor’s bravado, Aston sighed heavily. Isaerel’s hand drifted to his sword hilt, thoughtful.

"At fifteen, I severed Sidius’s hand on the battlefield. Heard the old man needs a cane to walk now..." His grin faded. "Still. Preparations must be made."

As if summoned by his words, the throne room doors burst open. A small figure strode in—a girl of eight or nine in royal white robes. Her ashen hair fluttered like dying embers; deep red eyes flickered with an eerie light, calm as abyssal pools hiding ancient demons.

Reaching the throne’s steps, she knelt on one knee.

"Father. You summoned me."

Spotting Aston beside the throne, she gave a slight nod, smiling.

"Teacher. I trust you are well."

Aston bowed in return. Isaerel settled back onto his throne, eyes fixed on the girl.

"Ilina. As my daughter, tradition demands you reside in the Duchy of Sidius during Iris’s birthday celebrations..." His voice turned sharp. "You know your duty?"

"Fear not, Father. Leave it to me."

Satisfied, Isaerel rose and clapped Aston’s shoulder.

"Aston. Take knights. Escort my daughter to the duchy."

"As you command, Your Majesty."

Ilina suddenly lifted her head. "Father—Teacher mentioned rumors of the Princess Silver Dragon being in Sidius. Is it true?"

"Hah?" Isaerel shot Aston a puzzled look. The mage chuckled awkwardly.

"Merely rumors, Your Majesty. My research into Ancient Epoch magic leads me to... unreliable sources. Likely nonsense."

"Hmph. Of course it is." Isaerel scoffed, shaking his head. "Dragons? In this age? An insult to reason."

His gaze returned to the dragon skulls behind the throne—symbols of human triumph. Only two skulls hung there...

A baffling smile curled Isaerel’s lips.

"A Silver Dragon, you say..." His eyes ignited with an unquenchable blaze. "Might not be so bad to have one."