The walk to the Sunstone Court was a spectacle. Servants and guards froze as he passed, their eyes wide, caught between the instinct to bow to the armor's royal authority and the primal urge to flee the demonic presence it contained. The Mana Shroud around him blurred his form, making the passage feel like a predator moving through deep water.
The great doors to the court were open, revealing a large hall bathed in the light of the actual sun, filtered through a magnificent crystal dome. The air, usually scented with blossoms and clean stone, was thick with tension and the subtle, competing magics of the assembled nobility.
Dozens of elves in silks and fine armor stood in clusters, their conversation a low, anxious murmur that died the moment Caelen crossed the threshold.
All eyes turned to him. The black and red armor, the silver hair, the crimson eyes—he was a living wound in their serene reality. He felt their gazes like physical touches: fearful, hateful, calculating.
