The borders of Solyria rose ahead, just north of the majestic Nurian Woods, where Noori's army had set their camp. The sun's golden rays reflected off the snow, turning the landscape into a shimmering expanse. Atop her steed, clad in ornate armor etched with the emblem of Nuria, Noori radiated command and elegance, every movement deliberate and full of authority.
Her voice cut through the crisp morning air, carrying over the assembled troops like a blade of steel. "As per the decree of the Great Emperor of Nuria, we march through the borders of Solyria," she proclaimed, each word resonating with unwavering conviction. There was no hesitation in her tone, no room for doubt; it stirred hearts and tightened grips on weapons.
Surveying her soldiers, she radiated strength and poise. The sunlight glinted off her armor, highlighting the intricate engravings that marked her as both leader and warrior. Every gesture, every tilt of her head, carried purpose and assurance, a promise that she was the embodiment of Nuria's will.
"I trust my father, the Emperor, has considered every consequence," she continued, her gaze sweeping over the ranks. "We follow his command. Obedience is our strength."
A chorus of voices rose in response, "All hail the Emperor!" Noori's eyes glimmered with pride, her resolve mirrored in the steel of her gaze. She nudged her horse forward, moving past the soldiers who remained at the camp's edge. Her tone softened slightly, but the weight of command lingered.
"Do not lose heart, my brothers," she said, her voice carrying across the clearing. "I have not abandoned you. Only a select few join me now, but when the need arises, you will be the first I call upon."
The men responded with resounding cheers, "Long live the General!" The sound rolled across the snow like thunder, echoing the loyalty and admiration she inspired. Noori's chest swelled with quiet pride. With a final nod, she spurred her horse, leading her chosen soldiers forward, her gaze fixed on the distant borders and the uncertain fate that awaited them.
The Osaris Palace bustled with unusual activity, its grand halls and manicured gardens alive with a flurry of servants and attendants. Under Azorius's strict orders, every corridor gleamed; stone floors shone as though polished by the sun itself. In the gardens, elemental powers were wielded with practiced precision, sculpting intricate ice and snow formations that glimmered like frozen jewels in the winter light.
Amid the controlled chaos, two maids moved carefully through the halls, carrying fresh linens toward the prince's chamber, their whispers barely audible over the distant clang of utensils and the murmur of other servants.
"Is it true that the Queen agreed to this marriage?" one murmured, her voice trembling with uncertainty.
"I'm not entirely certain," her companion replied, keeping her tone low. "But the maids from the main palace say the Queen refused to meet with the King. It seems she's displeased. And can you blame her? An unknown Nurian bride—and a commoner at that. How is it fitting for someone like her to marry our Crown Prince?"
Suli sighed, running a hand over her apron. "I suppose you're right… but considering the state of the Crown Prince, does it really matter? It's tragic, though—married to a prince who lies in a vegetative state."
Bree's frown deepened, her disapproval sharp. "Hush, you fool! Speak like that, and your tongue might be ripped from your mouth!" Her scolding carried more heat than fear, yet it failed to deter Suli, whose unease lingered.
The two maids moved like shadows through Dastan's room, arranging sheets and towels with practiced grace. Even in his unresponsive state, they treated every movement as if the prince were awake, their ballet of efficiency seamless and silent.
Approaching the door to the personal bath, Suli hesitated, her eyes lingering on the water-filled tub adorned with floating petals. "Do you think it's warm enough? Should we summon the bathing maids?"
Bree paused to assess the scene. "It's ready. Only the candles remain to be lit," she said calmly.
"And the other bath? The bride will arrive soon—she and her retinue crossed the Solyrian border yesterday. They could be close," Suli said, curiosity sharpening her tone.
Bree shrugged, disinterest in her voice. "Why should we worry? Let her attendants manage her," she replied, returning her focus to the linens in hand.
Suli's eyes sparkled with wistful fascination. "I wish I were assigned to attend her. I've heard stories from my mother about the beauty of Nurian women. To see it myself would be… remarkable," she murmured, almost dreamily.
Bree stiffened, her tone scolding. "You must be the only Solyrian with such admiration. Have you forgotten what they've done to our country?"
Suli's excitement faltered, her shoulders sagging. She muttered under her breath, "What does that have to do with the bride? You're all such haters," and turned to leave, leaving Bree to her quiet scolding.
Outside, the caravan bearing Noori and her troops approached the city gates, casting a palpable shadow over the bustling streets. Soldiers clad in the silver-and-red armor of Nuria, their banners snapping in the wind, drew wary glances and whispered fears from every corner.
At the forefront rode Noori Azar Solana, infamous throughout the lands as the bloodthirsty force of Nuria. Her presence alone turned excitement into dread, and every step of her mount carried authority and defiance.
The gates creaked open reluctantly, yielding to her arrival as archers stationed atop the towers followed her every movement with steely eyes, their stares sharp with contempt. The streets emptied, doors clattering shut as shopkeepers silently protested the arrival of the foreign army.
Yet Noori remained unmoved. Her crimson gaze swept the city, indifferent to the fear and hatred directed at her. A sharp click of her tongue punctuated her disdain. "Low lives," she spat, her words dripping with scorn for those who dared judge her. Her troops followed, disciplined and unwavering, banners held high, a display of unchallenged power that left no doubt who commanded the streets.