Velira bows her head respectfully. "My uncle will arrive in two days, Your Majesty. He traveled separately."
The king leans back slightly at that, interest flashing in his eyes. "Ah. Hadrik?"
"Yes, sire."
A deep chuckle rumbles from Rostel. "Then I'll be sure to clear my morning. I've long wanted to meet the man who shattered a tier 6 troll's skull with one strike. Your clan's fame is already considerable—but Hadrik… he's a tale all his own."
King Rostel rises slowly from his throne.
The hall quiets.
Even the fluttering banners seem to pause as the King of Imlan descends the marble steps of the dais—his crimson robes trailing behind him, boots striking firm against the polished stone.
"Come," he says, his voice steady but solemn. "Let us go and receive the Spears."
No grand gesture. No trumpets. Just that simple sentence—and yet, the weight of it settles in the air like stone.
Velira straightens instinctively. So do Gresren and Solven.
