Summoning Earth [Hiatus]

Chapter 33: Silent Storm

September 10, 1639 – Royal Palace, Capital Esthirant, Parpaldia Empire

The air in Esthirant didn't smell like war.

It smelled like lavender.

As the armored drake-car descended past the alabaster spires of the Royal District, Imperial Wrath stared out of the reinforced glass cabin windows in grim silence. Below them, the streets of the capital glistened like they hadn't bled in decades. Marble avenues, gold-tipped banners, civilians in tailored robes sipping morning teas under parasol-lined cafés.

Not a hint of smoke. Not a whiff of blood. The jungle was a world away.

Daere, still wrapped in field bandages, stared at the city with barely concealed disgust.

"They didn't even slow down," she muttered. "Look at them. Going to market while we're scrubbing blood from our boots."

"That's what capitals do," Marn replied bitterly. "They look clean so no one asks who's dying to keep them that way."

The car touched down in the southern landing court of the Royal Palace—a pristine plaza flanked by crystal fountains and white-helmed Honor Guard formations. The contrast was absurd. Six exhausted, dirt-smeared, bloodstained operatives stepped out into a greeting fit for a foreign dignitary.

A royal aide bowed low.

"Honored members of the 2nd Elite Magic Caster Division, Imperial Wrath. Her Royal Highness Princess Remille awaits your audience in the High Chamber."

No ceremony. No parade.

Just a straight line to the throne.

The palace halls were too quiet. Too clean.

Boots echoed on polished obsidian tiles. Columns soared into domed ceilings etched with murals of past imperial glories—dragons slain, archmages crowned, colonies burning with imperial fire.

Elgar kept glancing at the statues.

"Feels like a tomb."

Juno didn't disagree.

"A gilded one."

They were led through a final arch of white stone and gold-veined obsidian, into a circular chamber unlike any other they had seen in the palace. There were no guards flanking the doors, no aides lining the walls, no trace of the Empire's usual pageantry.

This room was intimate. Tall. Old.

The walls were carved with faded reliefs from the Empire's mythic past—battles fought with spellsteel and skyships, empresses atop wyverns, enemy kings kneeling in surrender. Dust lingered in the corners. Moonlight cut through a glassless window high above, casting a cold silver glow across the redstone floor.

At the center stood a throne of unpolished redstone, plain and heavy. No gold trim. No cushion. No dais. Just stone, cracked by centuries of weight.

And there she was.

Princess Remille Parpaldia.

She did not rise from the throne—because she had not been sitting. She stood before it, alone, waiting. As if this wasn't an audience chamber, but a confessional.

She wore a black imperial cloak over a sharply cut violet military uniform, tailored high at the collar with silver clasps. Her posture was immaculate, almost statuesque, but the fatigue in her shoulders betrayed how long she had been carrying this burden.

Her platinum hair was pulled into a high braid, not a loose ceremonial knot—tight, efficient, practical. Like a blade coiled behind glass.

Her face was as flawless as the portraits promised—but her expression wasn't. It wasn't grace or elegance or kindness that stared back at them.