The sun stood mercilessly at its peak—
Casting short, sharp shadows across the stone roads.
The heat wasn't the kind that burned—it just lingered, heavy and dry, making everything feel slower.
No wind. No clouds. Just heat that didn't sting, but stuck. The kind that made your shoulders ache without moving. That made every breath feel like it had weight.
That made the city feel like it had been placed under a giant, invisible dome.
And under that dome, everything moved a little slower.
Stone roads stretched out across Velmora like scars, wide and flat, polished from years of noble boots and merchant carts.
The road that stretched from the Argenthal Gates to the estate was wide enough to let six carriages pass side by side—but today, no one dared share it.
The main road—the Obsidian Mile—was clear today. Cleared in advance. Swept. Washed. Sealed off. No wagons. No vendors. Not even birds overhead.
Velmora wasn't quiet—it was holding its breath.
Not festive. Not curious. Just... waiting. Like something sacred was about to cross the threshold.
The kind that told you something big was coming, but no one wanted to be the one to say it out loud.
The crowd was already gathered, lined up neatly behind silver railings installed two days prior.
City guards were stationed every fifteen steps. Helmets gleamed, hands rested on their hilts, eyes fixed forward.
They weren't looking at the people. They were looking past them. Down the road. Waiting.
The commoners stood at the far edges, behind the gleaming guardrails. Their hands clutched parasols or handkerchiefs, shielding their eyes from the punishing sun.
On the left side, a man wiped the sweat from his neck with a cloth that used to be white.
Beside him, a woman adjusted her daughter's straw hat for the third time in five minutes. She didn't say a word. Neither did the girl. Even the children sensed it—today wasn't normal.
Across from them, nobles sat on shaded balconies. Not in crowds. Not together. One or two per terrace. All of them still. Dressed to impress, but none smiling.
The silence was mutual. The distance between the balconies and the sidewalk might as well have been a canyon. No one crossed it. No one greeted anyone across the divide.
At the far end of the road—where the Obsidian Mile met the twin towers of Argenthal Gate—two dark spears of stone pierced the sky.
They weren't decorated. No carvings. No windows. No banners. Just towering obsidian blocks that cast no shadow at this hour.
You couldn't see the top from the street. Just black stone, rising. You looked up, and they just... kept going.
Two spires standing like silent titans, watching centuries pass.
The banners of House Skywhisper swayed gently in the breeze above the main road.
———
Between them, the road curved slightly upward. And over that bend, just barely—
A flicker.
A movement.
Then came the voice.
It came from the top of one of the towers, cutting through the dry air like a blade dragged across glass.
"They're here!"
Nobody clapped.
Nobody cheered.
But everyone heard it.
And just like that, the city stopped breathing again.
———
The sound came first.
Steel boots.
Harness leather.
Hooves.
Not pounding. Not rushing. Just that soft, steady rhythm—like someone counting seconds with metal and bone.
Then came the soldiers.
From the curve of the road, they appeared in formation—
Leading the front were the, Imperial Escorts.
The first row of twelve stepped into view, gleaming under the noon sun. Their cloaks were dark crimson, lined in gold thread.
The armor didn't shine—it glowed. Not like magic. Just... perfect polish. You couldn't see their faces under the helmets. Just reflections.
On their breastplates, the Crest of the Sun—emblem of the Emperor himself—shone in pure gold.
They didn't wave. Didn't blink. They walked like they weren't affected by the heat. Like the sun didn't dare touch them.
No one needed to ask who they were. The way they moved through the gate—disciplined, silent, and sharp—said everything.
No expressions. No sweat.
Each step hit like a clock tick. Same distance. Same sound. Same silence between.
Their discipline was a language.
If one turned their head, the others did too. But no one turned their head.
They didn't need to look at the crowd. They weren't here for show. They were here for what came next.
People pressed against the rails. Even the nobles leaned forward a little now. Quiet. Curious. Some with narrowed eyes. Some are holding their breath. Not because of the soldiers. But because they knew—Imperial Escorts didn't show up unless it was serious.
Behind the guards, the first carriage appeared.
The first to arrive weren't royals—but they weren't common, either.
One by one, the nobles' carriages rolled in
Painted in soft gold and white. No dust on the wheels. Curtains drawn. Windows closed.
The wheels moved smoothly without a sound—no creaking, no bouncing.
These weren't local builds. They were Imperial.
More followed. Each one rolled slowly, evenly spaced, not a sound from the wheels or the horses.
Ten carriages total. Each of the Ten Great Houses of the Empire, Nobles, Gifts.
All of them bearing the banner of House Skywhisper—a navy comet in silver thread, spiraling through a field of stars.
Each one had its scent trailing behind—jasmine, lavender, old wood, ink, clove. Expensive smells. Smells that didn't belong on the streets.
As they passed, nobody inside opened a window. Nobody waved. It was too hot. Too tense. Too deliberate.
You could feel it even from the edge of the crowd.
They weren't returning.
They were announcing themselves—without saying a word.
———
At the edge of the road, Toma thirteen-year-old boy, stood near the middle of the crowd.
Barefoot. The shirt was sticking to his back. One hand holding his four-year-old sister up on his hip.
She was heavier today—not because she gained weight, but because everything felt heavier.
She didn't squirm or cry. Just watched the road, eyes too big for her face, hands tight around his neck.
He'd skipped work for this. The baker would yell at him later.
But he didn't regret it.
Because this wasn't just any arrival.
It wasn't the carriages. Or the scent. Or the nobles on the balconies fanning themselves with silk.
It was the silence.
It was the way the road looked... empty, even after ten carriages.
Too empty.
Like everyone knew—the main act hadn't arrived yet.
———
Then came the Skywhisper Guard.
There were no cheers. No clapping. Just silence.
They marched between the noble carriages and the final stretch of road. Black armor. Matte, no shine. No banners. No horses. No shields.
Just steel boots and drawn faces. They all moved together—left foot, right foot, same speed, and same breath.
They didn't carry polearms or spears. Just swords. Clean blades at their hips. Some with one hand resting on the hilt. Others didn't even blink.
Their formation was tight, locked so precisely it felt unnatural.
At the edge of the same road, a boy stood on the edge of the crowd, barefoot on the stone tiles that burned like coals.
He didn't flinch. Just stared—big eyes, dry lips. One hand gripping his little sister's wrist, as if he let go, she might vanish.
These weren't just bodyguards.
They were the final wall—the line between order and chaos.
———
Toma's sister whispered something in his ear. He didn't hear it.
All he could do was stare.
The guards weren't loud. They weren't flashy. But they made everything else—soldiers, nobles, even the carriages—feel like background noise.
They weren't part of the show.
They were the wall behind the curtain—the warning that something bigger was still coming.
The thing everyone was waiting for.
———
And finally, at the edge of the heat shimmer—far down the stretch of obsidian—
They saw it.
Two pairs of horses.
White. Coated in silver dust. Hooves are silent even on stone.
The Royal Carriage rolled in behind them. Not fast. Not slow. Just... certain.
Covered with gold and silver, rolled forward—thick wheels, metal trim, doors heavy enough to crush a man.
It massive. It ridiculous. Everything about it screamed importance.
The trim was silver. The body was dark navy with golden outlines shaped like constellations.
The wheels didn't squeak. The curtains were heavy velvet, stitched with runes no one could read.
It moved like it had the right to take up space. The city was lucky to host it.
No one inside showed their face.
No one had to.
Toma couldn't move. He didn't even realize he'd stopped breathing until his sister gripped him tighter and he gasped quietly.
His heart pounding for reasons he couldn't explain.
"What kind of person needs this much space just to arrive?"
Someone near him muttered a prayer under their breath. An old woman made the sign over her chest.
A noble on the balcony finally stepped back. Just one. A subtle retreat.
And across the city, the same thought flickered through thousands of minds:
Inside that carriage sat
The man who made emperors hesitate, and kings choose their words twice.
The road had been cleared for one reason.
Because the Grand Duke had returned.
And Velmora was holding its breath.
Whoever was in that carriage... didn't need to be introduced.
No trumpets. No names.
Just silence, steel, and a road carved clean.
That was the announcement.
TO BE CONTINUED...