The three days before departure were a whirlwind of focused, private activity. The team moved through the Palace like ghosts, their travel trunks containing more specialized gear than silk clothing.
Riven focused intensely on his mental state. His ability to control people's minds was their ultimate weapon, but also their largest liability. He needed absolute control, knowing that forcing his will on a Sovereign noble could trigger a diplomatic catastrophe. He spent hours in silence, counting his breaths, locking his power behind a dozen intricate mental wards, determined that his whispers would remain his and his alone.
Vaelorian spent his time cataloging the Gifts of his team members, touching each person's hand or shoulder to ensure their powers were available to him if needed. He was building a mental map of their collective strength, preparing to carry the weight of their unique abilities.
Willow worked non-stop, flying between the Palace and the Royal Library, the scent of stale parchment clinging to her clothes, compiling dossiers on Sovereign noble houses and the customs of the Sovereign court—a task that would have taken a week for normal couriers. She crammed every known history of the region into her mind, determined to weaponize knowledge.
Mira Lune refined her diplomatic mask, practicing calming exercises to suppress any accidental flicker of emotion that might manifest as flame—a dangerous display in a formal court. She visualized her emotions as banked embers, refusing to let them flare into the vibrant fire that represented her gift.
Anya gathered necessary medical supplies, but also collected samples of specific Imperial plants, knowing her power could give them eyes and ears where Imperial spies couldn't reach. She whispered to the resilient Lumina mosses, promising them they would soon be planted in hard, foreign soil.
Barron spent time mastering his control, knowing he might need to impersonate a Sovereign guard or official at a moment's notice. He watched palace guards for subtle ticks and shifts, studying their gait and mannerisms like a scholar studying ancient text.
On the third night, Vaelorian and Riven shared a quiet moment before boarding the Imperial frigate.
"About Princess Lyra," Vaelorian murmured, adjusting the silk of Riven's travel tunic. "I know you two spoke before. Did she give you any sense of someone who could be making this up? Is she the kind of woman to cry wolf?"
Riven shook his head. "No, Your Highness. We only spoke of you. She advised me to trust your heart, despite the situation at the time. She could have said anything about you back then but she said you're a good man. That fact alone makes me think her plea is genuine."
"I trust her, too. But the Sovereign court is a viper's nest," Vaelorian said, pulling Riven close. "We are alone now. No Imperial law protects us here. The Senate can't save us; the law is three oceans away. Our only defense is this team and the trust we share."
Riven returned the hug, burying his face briefly in Vaelorian's shoulder. "We've got this, babe. Let's go investigate Princess Lyra's mysterious future husband."
The journey across the Eastern Sea was swift, thanks to Durnhall's naval technology and a strong tailwind. They arrived at the Sovereign capital, Veridia, a port city renowned for its sheer cliffs and defensive architecture.
The Sovereign Empire was starkly different from the Lumina Empire. Where Lumina was opulent, filled with gilded spires and soft marble, Sovereign was built of dark, grey basalt and iron, radiating a brutal, practical strength. The massive blocks seemed to absorb the light. The air was colder, the light harsher.
They were greeted by a small, polite, yet extremely guarded escort. Mira Lune immediately took charge, her Ambassador persona smoothing over the Imperial delegation's lack of grandeur.
Mira Lune was immediately uncomfortable. She sensed the cold, suppressed formality of the Sovereign guards, and her own power felt dangerously volatile in the foreign atmosphere. They are so stiff, so lacking in human warmth. Any sudden movement and her Gift could flare, she thought, keeping her palms cool and slightly damp. She leveraged her training, her face an unreadable mask of polite respect.
"We are delighted to bring the Crown Prince for this historic cultural exchange," she purred to the Sovereign escort Captain. "We hope to learn much about your admirable defensive protocols."
Willow found the Sovereign architecture confining. She noted the narrow, winding streets and the sheer number of security checkpoints. "The city is designed to slow an invasion," she muttered to Riven, her gaze taking in a dozen details per second. Every corner felt like a chokepoint. She felt a frustrating pull to just run, to instantly map the entire city, but held back, relying on Vaelorian's proximity.
Barron was silent, taking in the uniforms of the Sovereign guards. He cataloged their insignia, their posture, and their weapons. The realization hit him: the Sovereign guards were highly disciplined, every movement practiced to the point of monotony, almost identical. They would be extremely difficult to impersonate without detailed behavioral data.
"Their formation is too tight, Riven," he whispered. "If I shift, I need to know their patrol routes and their shift rotations first, or I'm dead."
Anya found the environment unnerving. The flora was sparse—tough, hardy shrubs and dark, stubborn moss. Her connection to nature felt strained, like a radio struggling to find a signal. She focused on the moss growing on the basalt walls, trying to coax a bit of life into it. Suddenly, she received a distinct, metallic alarm from the small patch of grass near the palace entrance.
"There is something unnatural beneath the ground here," she murmured to Vaelorian, her fingers twitching. "Heavy metal. Not pipes. More like...a hidden pathway. The plant life is terrified of it."
Vaelorian felt the shift in energy immediately. He subtly brushed against Anya, instantly gaining her connection to the environment. He could feel the cold, inorganic hum beneath the flagstones she mentioned. He realized his role here wasn't just diplomatic; it was to be the anchor and the regulator for his team's powers in this hostile setting.
"Welcome, Your Royal Highness," Princess Lyra's personal escort said, bowing low.
Vaelorian looked straight ahead, his eyes meeting Lyra's across the courtyard. She looked beautiful as always, composed, and absolutely terrified. A silent conversation passed between the old friends: Can you help me?
Riven met Vaelorian's eye, a grim certainty settling between them. "This whole city feels like we just walked into a trap, Your Highness."
Vaelorian nodded, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Then we play the perfect, charming guests, my love. Let's find out what secrets this city is hiding."