Imperial Era

This was not a coronation.

Calling today's ceremony a "coronation" was merely because most people of this era were more familiar with the term.

Leaning on the Pathfinder Longsword, Gawain stood atop the false god's skull like a mountain peak. The black platform possessed a somber texture utterly unlike the royal styles of old. Steel wings spread out on either side, while banners bearing the imperial emblem extended all the way to the ground. Before that emblem, the Iron Rangers were entering the square.

Unlike the black armor of the magic-powered infantry, their fully enclosed helmets carried an air of mystery. Their formations were more orderly, their weapons newer and sharper. The appearance of the second formation stirred up another wave of commotion among the crowds inside and outside the square, and that shock spread to the platform in the castle district as well.

The royal capital's nobles invited to witness the ceremony, merchant representatives, former knight officers, and representatives of the church had all worn their finest formal attire. They had rehearsed dozens of times at home and come prepared to welcome their sovereign's coronation with cheers. Yet when the moment truly arrived, nearly all of them forgot how they were supposed to react.

This was not a coronation. It was a display, and a deeply meaningful announcement.

Count Cromwell Whiteson stood on the platform of Silver Castle. The knight lord of dwarven blood stared fixedly at the marching soldiers and their uniform equipment. Only now did he finally realize that this force and the armies he had known in the past were two utterly different things. He also understood why Cecil's rise had been inevitable.

He sighed softly. "Your Majesty Wales... so this is why you asked me to remain..."

"Seeing it with our own eyes is good