CXVIII
The Rainbow Horizon cuts through the sky like a thrown jewel—clean, sharp, shimmering with its adaptive exoshell. Even from the captain's chair, I can feel the hum of its engines through my bones, a steady pulse that matches the rising tension of our mission.
The northern kingdom unfolds beneath us.
Mountains first—tall, jagged, ancient things with snow‑kissed peaks and deep green slopes. Coniferous forests cling to their sides, thick and fragrant, broken only by wide green plains that stretch like velvet between the ridges. Rivers wind down from the heights, gentle and silver, threading through towns huddled close to the mountains for protection.
It's beautiful.
But beauty doesn't hide the scars.
Near the borders, the land changes—waste and devastation spreading like bruises across the terrain. Cropland that should be golden and abundant is reduced to one third of what it once was. Entire fields lie fallow, overgrown, abandoned. The soil looks tired, as if it has been asked to give too much for too long.
Seychelle watches the landscape with a quiet sadness.
"War," she murmurs. "Generations of it."
And it shows.
Most of the able‑bodied population went to fight. The kingdom's armies were legendary—fearsome, relentless, proud—but their victories came at a cost. The farms emptied. The villages hollowed out. Hunger crept in despite the fertile land.
Now the population is mostly:
Elderly, tending what little remains.
Women, keeping towns alive through sheer will.
Children, too young to understand why their world feels so thin.
The rivers still run.
The forests still grow.
The mountains still stand.
But the people…
they're surviving, not living.
Seychelle folds her hands in her lap, her blond curls bouncing slightly as the ship banks.
"This is why peace matters," she says softly. "This kingdom used to feed half the planet. Now it can barely feed itself."
Her voice carries a weight I haven't heard before—something deeper than duty, heavier than politics.
"This is the home of my first groom," she adds. "He understands what his people have lost. He wants peace. He needs it."
She glances at me, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
"His mother, however… well. You'll see."
The Rainbow Horizon descends toward a mountain‑ringed capital, its exoshell shimmering like a falling star.
And I can feel it—this mission is about to shift again.
From escort duty
to diplomacy
to navigating the fragile pride of a kingdom on the edge.
No turning back now.
Rorburg rises beneath us like a wounded giant trying to stand again.
The Rainbow Horizon glides over the mountains, its shimmering hull casting prismatic reflections across the conifer forests. The air thins as we descend, revealing a kingdom that is both breathtaking and broken.
The capital is a patchwork of renewal and ruin. Half‑finished towers stand beside crumbled ones. Scaffolding wraps around old stone like bandages. New metal beams gleam beside ancient timber. The people move through the streets with quiet determination, rebuilding their world one brick at a time.
At the center of it all sits the castle.
A massive structure of dark stone and red metal, surrounded by a wide moat fed by mountain rivers. The water glitters under the afternoon sun, reflecting the crimson armor of the royal guard stationed along the perimeter. Their metal plating is a deep, burnished red—symbolic of the northern kingdom's lineage, forged from alloys unique to their mountains.
They stand like statues, unmoving, disciplined, watching our descent with sharp eyes.
A Kingdom Scarred by War
The closer we fly, the more the scars show.
Beyond the capital, the cropland stretches in uneven patches—some green and thriving, others barren and gray. Entire fields lie abandoned, overtaken by weeds or simply left to dust. What should be a vast agricultural empire has been reduced to one third of its former output.
Seychelle watches silently, her expression softening.
"Most of their farmers went to war," she says. "For generations. They fought so long they forgot how to feed themselves."
And it's true.
The villages we pass are quiet. The roads are thinly traveled.
The people we see are mostly, elderly, bent but stubborn, women, carrying baskets, tools, and children, small and wide‑eyed, watching our ship like it's a miracle.
The able‑bodied men—the ones who should be tending fields, building homes, raising families—are gone. Lost to battles that brought no victory, only hunger.
Seychelle leans forward in her seat, her blond curls bouncing slightly.
"This kingdom needs peace more than any other," she murmurs. "My groom knows that. He's fought for it. He's bled for it."
Her voice softens.
"But his mother… she still believes strength comes from war. She sees peace as surrender."
The Rainbow Horizon lowers toward the castle's landing platform, shimmering like a falling star.
The red‑armored guards snap to attention.
Seychelle straightens her beret, lifts her chin, and smooths her cheongsam‑style suit.
"Prepare yourselves," she says, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "We're about to meet the most formidable woman in the northern kingdoms."
The ship touches down.
The northern kingdom announces itself long before we touch down—its mountains rising like the backs of sleeping lions, its forests whispering with old pride, its capital rebuilding itself stone by stone. But nothing embodies its spirit more than its people.
They are lion shifters—broad‑shouldered, red‑maned, fierce by nature and by history. Even the children we glimpsed in the villages had that unmistakable bearing: chin lifted, eyes sharp, posture straight. A culture built on strength, honor, and the belief that survival is earned, not given.
Their warriors once dominated the continent.
The castle sits at the center of the capital like a heart still beating despite the wounds around it. A wide moat surrounds it, fed by mountain rivers. Red‑metal‑clad royal guards stand along the perimeter, their armor gleaming like molten iron cooled into plates.
And at the top of the grand staircase stands Rughilde.
The rampant lioness.
She is everything the stories promised and more.
Once she wore armor instead of skirts—full plate forged from the kingdom's rare red alloy. She carried a lance instead of a scepter. She led charges, not councils. She fought beside her king until the day he fell, and when the kingdom needed a ruler, she stepped forward without hesitation.
Now she wears a red gown, but it doesn't soften her.
Her posture is still that of a warrior—straight spine, squared shoulders, chin lifted in defiance of anything that dares threaten her people. Her hair is piled high, supporting a crown that looks less like jewelry and more like a battle standard.
Her eyes track our ship as we descend.
Sharp.
Measuring.
Unimpressed by spectacle.
Seychelle inhales softly beside me. "That is Rughilde," she murmurs. "My groom's mother."
There's a note in her voice—respect, wariness, maybe even a hint of dread.
"She is… formidable."
And she is.
Rughilde stands like a queen who has never once surrendered, never once bowed, never once let grief turn her into anything but steel. She is the embodiment of her kingdom's pride—and the greatest obstacle to its peace.
As the Rainbow Horizon settles onto the landing platform, her gown ripples in the mountain wind, but her stance never shifts.
She is waiting.
And she expects us to prove ourselves worthy of stepping into her kingdom, her castle, and her son's future.
Princess Seychelle walks with the kind of grace that isn't learned in courts but forged in crisis. Even after the rebel attack, even after the sprint through smoke and chaos, she steps onto the northern kingdom's dais with her chin lifted and her boots clicking sharply against the stone.
The throne room of Rorburg is vast—rebuilt stone rising beside scaffolding, banners of the Sun Lion house hanging heavy from iron rods. The air smells faintly of mountain wind and forge‑smoke. Red‑armored guards line the walls like statues carved from war itself.
And at the center, on the throne of dark stone and red metal, sits Queen Rughilde.
Seychelle stops at the foot of the dais and sinks into a deep curtsy, her blond curls falling forward, her jeweled beret glinting under the torchlight.
"Queen Rughilde," she says, voice steady and formal, "I, the princess of the United Isles, have come to take my groom, Prince Rubengild of the House of Sun Lion, to his wedding—escorted by outsiders, as per the treaties."
The words echo through the hall.
A few guards shift.
A few nobles murmur.
The mountain wind sighs through the high windows.
Rughilde does not move.
She studies Seychelle like she's weighing her worth grain by grain. The queen's gown ripples slightly as she inhales, but her expression remains carved from stone—regal, fierce, unyielding.
Behind Seychelle, your squad stands in formation. Daryll's roommates tense subtly, sensing the pressure in the air.
This is not a simple greeting.
This is a test.
A warrior queen measuring the woman who will marry her son, bind her kingdom to peace, and reshape the future she fought for with blood and steel.
And the entire hall waits for Rughilde's response.
Rughilde doesn't rise. She doesn't roar. She simply summons.
One flick of her claw‑tipped fingers, and the hall seems to shift—guards straightening, nobles holding their breath, the air itself tightening like a drawn bowstring.
From behind a column steps a lion‑man so massive he seems carved from the mountain itself.
Nearly nine feet tall.
Broad shoulders wrapped in a greatcoat whose thick ruff resembles a mane.
Golden‑brown eyes that gleam with intelligence and amusement.
A presence that fills the room without effort.
He walks with the slow, deliberate confidence of someone who has never once doubted his strength—or his place in the world.
When he reaches the dais, he bows his head to his mother, then turns to Seychelle. His expression softens, lips curling into a warm, amused smile.
"I, Rubengild of the House of Sun Lion, have come to meet Princess Seychelle for our treatied marriage."
His voice is deep, resonant, carrying the timbre of a born commander. Yet there's a gentleness beneath it—something thoughtful, something steady. He looks at Seychelle not as a political pawn, but as someone he respects.
Seychelle's posture shifts subtly—her shoulders relax, her chin lifts. She's comfortable with him. Familiar. This is the groom she said she'd known the longest, the one with whom she shares a mostly friendly relationship.
Behind her, your squad watches with quiet attention.
Atta's ears flick forward.
The fox‑man's tail sways once, intrigued.
The Ursinid rumbles approval under his breath.
Rubengild's gaze sweeps over your escort team, lingering on you for a moment—curious, assessing, but not hostile. His amusement deepens, as if he finds the idea of outsiders escorting his bride both surprising and oddly charming.
Rughilde finally speaks, her voice sharp as a blade drawn across stone.
"Rubengild. The princess has come for you. Do not keep her waiting."
He inclines his head, mane‑ruff shifting.
"Of course, Mother."
Then he turns fully to Seychelle, offering his arm with a warrior's grace and a gentleman's ease.
"Princess. Shall we begin our journey?"
The hall holds its breath.
Because this is the first groom.
The easiest groom.
The one who wants peace.
And even he arrives with the weight of a kingdom behind him.
Rughilde's transformation from iron‑clad monarch to affectionate matriarch happens so abruptly it almost knocks the breath out of the room.
One moment she's the rampant lioness—spine straight, gaze sharp, crown perched atop a battle‑ready posture.
The next, her stern mouth softens into a smile.
A real one.
Warm.
Proud.
Almost mischievous.
She exhales, a long sigh that seems to release decades of tension.
"Now that the formal things are over," she says, voice suddenly rich with fondness, "come kiss your mother‑in‑law."
Seychelle's boots tap excitedly against the stone as she hops up the stairs—no regal glide, no diplomatic caution, just pure, unfiltered joy. She reaches the throne and leans in, giving Rughilde a kiss on each cheek.
The queen responds with a gentle pat on Seychelle's head, claws carefully retracted. It's a gesture so tender it feels almost private.
Rughilde has known this girl since she was six.
And if treaties hadn't dictated the match, Seychelle would have been her first choice—her ideal daughter‑in‑law, chosen by heart rather than politics.
The queen waves her son forward with a flick of her hand.
"Rube, go on with your wife."
Rubengild's massive form slumps into a roguish posture, shoulders loosening, mane‑ruff shifting. He looks suddenly less like a nine‑foot warrior prince and more like a mischievous teenager caught sneaking sweets.
"Stand up straight," Rughilde snaps.
He groans. "Aw, Mother."
Seychelle laughs, grabbing his enormous hand—her fingers barely wrapping around two of his—and tugs him toward the exit. Despite his size, he follows her like a docile mountain being led by a breeze.
"Come on, Rube," she says, her voice bright. "We have to pick up the others."
And just like that, the first groom is collected.
The queen watches them go, her expression a blend of pride, worry, and the fierce hope only a warrior who has lost too much can carry.
The journey continues—two more kingdoms, two more grooms, and a wedding meant to bind a fractured world together.
The red guard salute as they exit the castle and hop onto the ship, setting the journey for the next husband candidate.