Morning broke bright and nervous over Windket.
The air smelled of scented oils and food stalls.
Every inch of the village had been cleaned within an inch of its life; windows shone, the streets were swept smooth.
Royal banners hung from rooftops and doorframes, snapping sharply in the wind.
Near the eastern gate, the entire village stood with held breath.
Roland Vale stood at the front of the gathered crowd.
Though his posture was straight and his expression calm, his hands never stopped tightening and releasing behind his back.
His formal coat, brushed and pressed until the seams gleamed, sat stiffly on his shoulders.
Beside him, Darran adjusted the strap of his polished breastplate for what had to be the tenth time.
The sunlight caught on its mirrored surface, blinding enough to draw stares.
"Quit fidgeting," Roland muttered, not unkindly.
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You're figgeting more than a bride on her wedding night."
Darran exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking toward the forest road stretching north.
"Father… How many circuits do you think I have?"
"More than me," Roland replied as he looked at his son's face with unhidden pride.
Turning around, he scanned the faces of the waiting crowd.
Of mothers clutching their sons' shoulders, fathers whispering last-minute advice, and the remaining guards lined up behind him in their best uniforms.
"We just need to make sure everything looks… perfect."
"And if they ask about the missing patrol?"
Roland's gaze didn't move. "They won't."
He said that too quickly. Too firmly.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to press the morning down.
The Captain of the Guard, a jaw-scarred man named Brann, stepped closer.
"My lord," he said quietly, "…scouts report the convoy is five minutes out."
Roland nodded once. "Positions."
The order rippled through the guards like wind through wheat.
Backs straightened, spears grounded, shields shining with a polish they rarely saw.
Villagers clustered just behind the line, whispering in awe as the distant sound of the rhythmic thunder of hooves began to rise.
"They're here…" someone whispered.
And Roland felt his heartbeat climb.
He clenched his fist behind his back as he murmured. "Remember… smiles, calm, respect. We are Windket. We are not savages."
And a few beats later, the faint shapes took form.
A wall of silver-armored knights led the vanguard with banners of the Royal Crest fluttering from their spears.
Behind them came a procession of wagons draped in royal blue, each humming softly with the pulse of enchantments.
And then, at the center, came the great carriage pulled by a massive drake.
A colossal construct of mithril-lined oak, its surface etched with golden filigree.
Even from this distance, Roland could feel its presence, the weight of authority that made every man straighten unconsciously.
Darran's voice broke the quiet. "Father… is that her carriage? Lady Seris Avarie's?"
Roland's mouth went dry. "Yes," he said softly. "That's her."
The thunder of hooves grew until the ground itself began to tremble.
Roland's breath caught as the Royal Association's vanguard broke through the morning mist.
Silver armor. Perfect formation. Every rider was a reflection of discipline so sharp it hurt to look at.
They reached the gates like a tide and, at the same heartbeat, the entire vanguard pulled their reins.
—CRRRHH!
The line halted as one, iron-shod hooves striking the dirt in unison.
Then, like clockwork, the knights split formation, half veering left, half right, their horses gliding into new positions until both sides of the road were lined with gleaming silver.
Each man saluted with his hand to his heart in perfect unison before going still as statues.
Roland had seen knights before, but the presence they exuded was beyond what he had ever felt.
These weren't soldiers. They were a storm given order.
At the center of the path, one knight remained mounted, donned in black-trimmed and the Royal Crest embroidered into the crimson cloth draped from his pauldrons.
The wind caught the great red banner he carried, making it snap sharply overhead in the winds with the sigil of the Eryndor Empire blazing in the sunlight.
He turned his horse with a single, controlled motion as the lead carriage rolled forward behind him, pulled by a green drake.
"They have a Drake pulling the carriage!" Darran gasped.
Only to be shushed by his father.
The rumble of its wheels was a whisper compared to the sheer pressure it carried.
Gold filigree glinted against mithril bands; the royal insignia etched along the doors pulsed faintly with light from embedded mana stones.
Even the air itself became saturated with mana as the carriage approached.
The knight drew his sword, lowering it to the ground before raising his voice-
"Before you stands the Royal Association, commissioned by His Imperial Majesty and founded by Her Highness, the Seventh Princess of Eryndor! Here to appraise the next generation of our illustrious Empire!"
The villagers fell to hushed whispers. Mothers tugged their children to bow lower.
And the next moment, Roland dropped to one knee. Even his usually arrogant son followed suit.
The knight's voice carried again, every word wrapped in reverence.
"Behold those who walk under the Princess's banner!"
The carriage door clicked open.
First to step down was a silver-haired figure in a maid's uniform.
Small, graceful, with every motion utterly silent.
Her crimson eyes scanned the crowd ahead with an unreadable expression.
"Elara of the Shadows," the knight declared, "Personal attendant and shadow to Her Highness, the Seventh Princess."
She bowed faintly. Not to Roland or the crowd, but to the air itself, as if the world were a guest in her presence.
Roland's chest tightened. He couldn't even sense her mana. It was as though she weren't there at all.
Then came the sound of heavy boots, and a mountain of a man followed, his horns catching the sun as he adjusted the massive blade slung across his back with a broad grin.
"Sir Garron Throne, S-rank Representative of the Adventurers' Guild!" the knight proclaimed. "Tier 8 Warrior! Bearer of the Bull of Heaven's Bloodline!"
The villagers gasped at the sight of Garron.
Garron gave a small wave to the stunned villagers, laughing under his breath.
"Relax, folks. We don't bite… well, not unless you're a bandit… or a monster… basically an enemy in general."
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the crowd.
Then the next figure descended.
Robes of black and white flowing softly, every motion deliberate and silent.
A priest.
No. The Priest.
His ashen eyes gleamed faintly beneath the morning sun as the light caught the silver symbol of Kali at his chest.
"Father Silas Crowe," the knight intoned, "Ordained Priest of Mother Kali, the Dual-Favored of Death and Renewal."
Silas inclined his head, offering a calm, almost holy nod toward the villagers.
His gaze swept over them, unreadable yet kind, as though blessing them simply by existing.
Next came laughter. Low, lazy, and amused.
An old man with a long white beard and robes of deep violet stepped down, carrying himself with none of the stiffness one expected of his rank.
"Archmage Beric Halvern, The Grandmyriad Arcanum," the knight announced, the words themselves edged with awe.
"Eighth-Tier Archmage and the Representative of the Magus Association."
The old mage waved cheerfully at the crowd, eyes crinkling with amusement. "Fine day for paperwork, isn't it?"
No one laughed.
Even Garron chuckled awkwardly, muttering, "Come on now, old man… that's just embarrassing."
And finally…
The air shifted.
From the carriage stepped a young woman in a white coat and black attire, her presence quiet yet absolute.
Light seemed to cling to her without permission.
Her long hair shimmered pale brown in the sun, eyes green and sharp, calm yet carrying something impossibly deep.
She walked with absolute authority.
"Lady Seris Avariel," the knight declared.
"Tier 7 Cultivator, Head of the Royal Association and bearer of the Seventh Princess's Royal Seal by her command and trust."
Every villager bowed their heads lower.
Even Roland found himself unable to look directly at her. The weight of her aura pressed against the air like a silent tide.
Seris paused beside her knight, eyes sweeping across the small village, from its crooked roofs to the line of trembling guards, to Roland himself.
And when she finally spoke, her voice was soft, steady, and clear enough to carry through the crowd before her.
"Windket," she said, "thank you for your hospitality. We'll begin the appraisals at noon."
The silence that followed was reverent.
Then, as if released from a spell, the villagers erupted into cheers.
Roland exhaled shakily, lowering his head again, not just from respect, but from relief.
For now, at least, Windket had survived the first glance of the gods.