Saelthun City glittered under the veil of dusk like a drunken jewel. The scent of simmering spices, sweat, and sweetwine clung to the cobbled streets. Somewhere deep within the city's ribcage, laughter poured out of the Jade Braids Tavern, mingling with the sound of clinking mugs and cracked lutes.
Inside, the air was thick with celebration. Golden-robed merchants, low-ranked nobles, and spice-haired courtesans lounged across velvet-cushioned booths. Some gambled in shadowy corners. Others sang songs of glory, their voices slurred and half-true.
The conversation, as always, eventually tilted toward the Thaleon Guild.
"They say their armor breathes, like it's alive," a broad-shouldered man with honey-twisted braids declared, slamming his tankard. "You ever seen a spear pierce a Seraphyte plate? I haven't. Saw one of 'em get shot clean in the eye with an obsidian bolt—flicked it off like a fly!"
Laughter erupted.
"I heard their gloves can pull thunder from the veins of the sky!" another boasted. "Elemental alignment, bloodline resonance—all of it, perfectly tuned."
"Bah," muttered a wizened old man with crooked teeth, swirling the last dregs of his drink. "Seraphyte gear's too shiny. Ain't natural, I say."
"Oh hush, Krell," one of the courtesans giggled. "You're just mad your wrinkled bones never got picked for the Trials!"
More laughter. But Krell narrowed his eyes and muttered low, "I seen something once. One of 'em Guild men bled light—white, thin stuff. Not blood. Not right."
A hush fluttered, quickly drowned out by a boisterous toast from the back.
"To the Guild! Keepers of Thaleon! The blade behind Zyreon's throne!" a merchant bellowed.
"To the Seraphyte Knights!" echoed the hall.
Krell scoffed, taking another long drink. "Sacred my teeth. If their armor's sacred, then my piss sings lullabies to the stars."
Then, the street outside quieted.
A glow pulsed beyond the tavern's open archway. Golden, crystalline—unnatural.
Moments later, a palanquin of sharp-cut crystal, shimmering with iridescent glyphs, glided past the tavern. It was carried not by men, but by floating glyph runes pulsing under its base. Atop it sat a girl robed in whispering silk-flame, her crimson-gold hair cascading like burning wine.
Lady Enira of House Saevareth.
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the open tavern. She had heard them.
The commoners didn't know what to do—bow? Cheer? Stay silent?
Instead, a silence fell, uncertain and heavy—until Krell hiccupped loudly.
"Look at her," he snorted. "All dressed up like she's menstruating divine fire. Must be a bad week for her."
The room broke into stifled gasps—and then, full laughter. Even a few women slapped their thighs, choking on wine.
But Enira didn't move.
Not with her limbs.
Instead, she lifted a single hand from her lap—her fingers glowing with ember lines.
Krell's chair exploded. Not in flames, not with sound—but with sheer force. The old man flew backward through the tavern doors, smashing through a fruit stand across the street. Peaches and red pulp splattered everywhere.
Screams followed. Drinkers dropped their mugs. A young girl near the doorway fainted.
Lady Enira said nothing.
The palanquin pulsed once more and continued forward, her two guards—clad in dark red Seraphyte-threaded coats with swirling shoulder plates—walking behind it like living statues.
No one in the tavern spoke. No one moved.
Only a whisper rose from someone in the back, barely heard:
"...and she only has three hundred ninety veins…"