The road to Saerath's capital was a ribbon of dark, frozen earth cutting through a land locked in winter's grip. Snow lay deep along the edges, where the wind had carved drifts into sharp ridges. Overhead, the sky was a leaden dome, unbroken except for the occasional dark wing of a carrion crow circling high above.
Kaelen's breath steamed in the cold as he rode Veyran at the front of the Valeryn contingent, with Captain Virel and her black-armored Saerath escort flanking the column. The sound of hooves was muffled by the frost-hardened ground, though the occasional jingle of bridles and creak of leather cut through the otherwise oppressive silence.
Beyond the rise ahead, Kaelen knew the first glimpse of Saerath itself. He sat straighter in the saddle, one gloved hand tightening around the reins. Sir Renic rode just behind him, his face set in the stoic lines of a man who distrusted what lay ahead but knew better than to show it too openly.
They crested the rise, and there it was the Saerath.
The city stretched out in a vast crescent along the banks of a dark, slow-moving river, but it was the walls that stole the breath from Kaelen's lungs. They were not the pale stone of Valeryn's fortifications, nor the weathered brown of old cities. These walls were blackstone—massive, unyielding, their sheer faces glinting faintly under the flat winter light as though they had been oiled. Towers rose at regular intervals, each crowned with cruel iron spikes that caught what little sun there was.
The walls themselves were so high that they seemed to merge with the low clouds, and from this distance they gave the impression of a fortress meant not merely to keep invaders out, but to cast a shadow over all within.
Kaelen felt the weight of them pressing down even from miles away.
The road widened as they drew closer, flanked now by open fields that had long since been stripped bare for winter. Along the verges stood lines of Saerath soldiers—disciplined, unmoving, their armor black and silver like the escort's. They stood in perfect formation, shields resting against one boot, spears upright, faces hidden behind visors that allowed only the faintest glint of eyes.
There were hundreds—perhaps thousands—stretching along the road in silent witness to the arrival of Valeryn's prince. There was not a cheer, not a whisper, not a single voice broke the stillness.
The only sound was the steady rhythm of marching boots from a patrol crossing ahead, their steps perfectly synchronized. Even their cloaks—deep crimson—moved in unison with the wind, as if the very air in Saerath obeyed discipline.
The main gate loomed before them, set into the blackstone wall like the mouth of some vast beast. It was framed by carved reliefs of phoenixes in flight, their wings rendered in sharp angular lines rather than soft curves, giving them an almost predatory grace.
The gate itself was of black iron, its top edged with interlocking spikes. Locals called it the Iron Teeth, though Kaelen had only ever heard the name whispered in the war council chambers back home.
As they approached, a deep horn note rolled from the towers above, the sound so low it seemed to vibrate in Kaelen's chest. The gates did not swing open swiftly; instead, they rose slowly, the grinding of ancient chains echoing like a distant avalanche. Beyond lay the shadowed tunnel of the gate passage, torchlight flickering on blackstone walls slick with damp.
The moment the last of the gate teeth cleared the way, Captain Virel urged her horse forward, leading them into the city.
The tunnel gave way to the inner ward, and the sheer scale of the capital unfolded before Kaelen's eyes. Saerath was not built for beauty—it was built for command.
The streets were broad enough for entire companies of soldiers to march side by side. The buildings, all in the same blackstone, rose four or five stories, their sharp-edged architecture casting long, cold shadows. Here and there, crimson banners hung from iron poles, the phoenix of Saerath spreading its wings over the city.
Citizens watched from the sides of the street—men and women in thick wool cloaks of muted colors. Their faces were pale from the winter and the stone-cold air. Some bowed slightly as the procession passed, but most only observed with quiet, unreadable expressions. There were no children darted forward, no merchants called out. It was a silence more complete than Kaelen had ever known in a city this size.
Even the horses seemed subdued, their hooves striking the paving stones with a rhythm that felt almost ceremonial.
The palace of Saerath was not set apart on a hill like Valeryn's, but embedded deep within the heart of the city, its blackstone towers rising higher than any other building. Approaching it felt like walking deeper into the city's grip.
Bridges of iron linked some towers, casting latticework shadows across the streets below. Statues of past emperors stood at intervals along the main avenue, each carved in the same severe style—tall, imposing figures with hard eyes and unsmiling mouths. The nearer they drew, the more soldiers Kaelen saw, their armor gleaming, their stances unyielding.
By the time they reached the palace gates, he felt as though they had passed through layer upon layer of defenses. And neither rebel nor army could have entered this place without being swallowed whole.
The courtyard within the palace walls was vast enough to host a full military parade. Its flagstones were perfectly laid, each joint precise, and the edges were lined with black marble columns veined faintly with crimson.
At the far end, the great doors of the throne hall stood open, revealing a glimpse of high, shadowed ceilings and the shimmer of torchlight on polished stone.
Here, the Saerath court had assembled. They were an array of lords and ladies dressed in dark silks and brocades, embroidered with threads of silver and crimson. Many wore jewelry set with black opals or blood-red rubies, and more than a few carried thin ceremonial swords at their sides.
Their faces were masks—polished, composed, but cold. The eyes that studied Kaelen were weighing him like a merchant weighing a shipment of goods, assessing value and flaws in the same glance.
A herald in black and crimson stepped forward, his voice carrying across the courtyard without seeming to strain.
"Kaelen of Valeryn, by blood son of Aldren, King of the Hawk Crown, and by treaty consort to Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Seraphina of Saerath."
There was a ripple through the gathered courtiers—a subtle shift of posture, a faint murmur quickly stilled without applause and cheers. Only that careful, watchful silence.
Kaelen dismounted, the cold of the flagstones biting through the soles of his boots. He inclined his head in the formal Saerath manner, a gesture he had studied before the journey.
From the shadowed archway of the throne hall, Seraphina herself emerged. She was dressed in a gown of black silk that caught the torchlight with a faint sheen, a crimson sash bound at her waist. Her crown was a circlet of black metal set with a single phoenix feather wrought in gold. Her expression was unreadable, lips curved neither up nor down.
She stopped before him, her gaze locking with his. "Welcome to Saerath, Consort," she said, her tone smooth and cool as polished steel.
Kaelen inclined his head again. "It is an honor to stand in your court."
Her lips quirked—just barely. "We shall see if the honor is mutual."
The courtiers parted as Seraphina turned and led the way into the palace. Kaelen followed, aware of every eye on his back. The great doors closed behind them with a deep boom, sealing the winter wind outside.
Inside, the air was warmer but carried the faint scent of oil and cold metal. The halls were lit by braziers set into the walls, their flames throwing golden light across the blackstone floors. Murals lined the corridors—scenes of Saerath's conquests, each rendered in vivid pigments that seemed to drink in the light.
Here, even beauty had weight. Every arch, every column, every carved phoenix seemed designed not just to inspire awe, but to remind all who walked here who held power.
The throne hall was a cavern of shadow and light, its vaulted ceiling lost in the darkness above. Two rows of towering columns marched down the length of the chamber, each carved into the likeness of armored warriors bearing spears. At the far end, on a dais of black marble, stood the Phoenix Throne—a high-backed seat of wrought iron shaped into sweeping wings.
Seraphina ascended the dais and turned to face her court. Kaelen remained standing before the steps, waiting for the formal words that would conclude his arrival.
The Empress spoke, her voice echoing through the hall. "Valeryn's son has come to Saerath. Let the court mark his face and remember his name, for he shall walk among us as consort to the Empire."
The courtiers bowed, but the gesture was shallow—perfunctory. Kaelen could feel the chill behind their eyes, the quiet resistance in their movements. This was not a welcome; it was a test.
To be continued…