Iris Kingdom, royal capital, Antti.
The damp, chilly morning fog spread through the city like the drowsy dream of an ancient metropolis.
The Lindsay River ran through the city, flowing past the low wooden shacks and muddy alleys of the outer city, beneath century-old arched bridges in the inner city adorned with stone carvings. Its rippling waters reflected the splendid colors of the church's stained-glass windows and the forest of spires rising from the Kingdom Academy.
At the city center, the divided tributaries converged into a crystal-like lake. Along its shores stood a magnificent palace complex built from pure white marble and pale gold granite—Whiteflame Castle, the heart of power in the Iris Kingdom.
The castle guards stood solemnly outside the gilded wooden doors.
Though they tried their best to appear calm, their overly tense expressions betrayed the turmoil in their hearts.
Today was far too unusual.
His Majesty the King had received an urgent report, awakened in the middle of the night, summoned his ministers, and kept them there until now. Even a bishop from the Holy Light Church had appeared in the castle.
That meant something major had happened.
The guards did not know exactly what it was, but it had to be something very, very serious.
From their experience as guards, the severity of an incident was generally inversely proportional to the number of people involved in discussing it.
When the king sat upon his throne with every official, minister, noble, and adviser present—when the attendance was as complete as it could possibly be—it was usually just ceremony, polite chatter, or an announcement after the matter had already been decided.
But when people were summoned one by one, starting in the dead of night, and spoke behind closed doors, it was absolutely the highest tier of severity.