In the golden spires of the Imperial Capital, change was less welcome.
Within the Mirror Hall, where the kingdom's ministers met beneath a stained glass ceiling, unease curdled into paranoia.
"Too much power for one house," hissed Chancellor Vurell, sliding a scroll of provincial revenue spikes across the table.
"Merchant caravans follow Darsha trade roads, not royal ones," said Lady Iskela, tapping her jeweled fan with growing agitation.
The High Treasurer laid out a brutal truth: tax yields were rising—but credit for prosperity fell squarely on House Darsha's shoulders.
And at the heart of it all: a boy. A child who spoke of economic harmonics and supply chain latency as if reciting nursery rhymes.
The whispers became voices.
And the voices reached King Harilan IV.
The monarch was no fool. He knew power when he saw it—and he saw too much of it accumulating outside his reach.
So he summoned his scribes and drafted a letter bearing the Royal Seal.
A summons was issued.