The wide expanse of lush green forests in the Nurian Empire basked under the warm, penetrating sunlight, casting dappled shadows across the tranquil lakes. Unlike the cold and frosty valleys of Solyria, Nuria boasted a vibrant palette of colors, with the sun generously illuminating its landscape.
In stark contrast to the towering, slender structures of Solyria, where snow would effortlessly slide off their peaks, Nurian architecture was a marvel of its own. Instead of tall towers, Nurian buildings showcased high, arched domes adorned with intricate carvings and designs, each structure a testament to the empire's artistic flair and cultural richness.
The main palace where Emperor Azar Solana held his audiences was the most grandiose piece of art in all of Nuria. It gleamed as white as milk, with not a speck of dust marring its marbled surfaces. Bathed in the brilliant sunlight, the palace seemed to glow even brighter, its magnificence commanding attention from afar.
The soft pinkish light, filtering through the colored mirrors above, gently bathed the floor as a heavy leather shoe-shaped silhouette hurriedly made its way across the palace corridor. The man, tall and imposing, carried an air of seriousness with him. His black hair, as dark as a raven's plumage, framed a face marked by deep, penetrating black eyes that seemed to hold the mysteries of the night itself. His brows furrowed with intensity, adding to the aura of authority that surrounded him, while a short, scruffy beard accentuated his masculine features. Draped around his shoulders was a deep maroon cape, intricately woven with threads of gold, a symbol of his noble status.
As the maids and servants caught sight of him passing by, they instinctively paused in their tasks, placing their hands over their chests in a gesture of respect.
"Greetings to Duke Flint," murmured the palace staff, acknowledging his presence with reverence.
Flint gave them a brief nod before striding purposefully towards the audience hall, his steps echoing against the grand marble floors. The heavy oak doors stood tall before him, guarded by two imposing figures clad in polished armor. As he approached, the guards recognized him and swiftly opened the doors, their movements fluid and respectful.
Entering the hall, Flint was met with a scene of bustling activity. Nobles and courtiers adorned in lavish attire mingled, their voices blending into a symphony of murmurs and laughter. The air was thick with anticipation, each individual eagerly awaiting their turn for an audience with the emperor.
Amidst the sea of faces, Flint's presence commanded attention. Heads turned, conversations halted, and all eyes fixated on the grand Duke as he made his way through the crowd. His stature, demeanor, and the aura of authority he exuded marked him as a figure of significance in the court.
As Flint approached the throne at the far end of the hall, the room fell into an expectant hush. Seated upon the throne was Emperor Azar Solana, a formidable figure with maroon red hair cascading around his shoulders. His piercing blood-red eyes surveyed the hall with a mix of power and wisdom, instilling a sense of reverence in those who beheld him.
Upon spotting Flint, a subtle shift occurred in the emperor's expression. His eyes gleamed with recognition and respect as he raised a hand in greeting.
"Welcome to you, our Grand Duke," the emperor spoke, his voice carrying across the hall with authority. "I congratulate you on your recent success on the battlefield." His words resonated with the weight of his station, each syllable infused with power and gravitas.
Flint lowered his head in a gesture of respect, placing his hand over his heart before addressing the emperor. "It is a great honor for me that you thought I was worthy of that compliment, Your Grace," he spoke with clarity and reverence.
"You deserve it," Emperor Azar Solana replied, acknowledging Flint's gratitude with a brief yet meaningful response.
After a moment of contemplative silence, Flint lifted his head, meeting Azar's gaze directly as he broached the topic at hand. "Your Grace, if it isn't of great disrespect, I would wish to talk to you about an important matter," he said, his voice steady and unwavering.
Azar remained composed, knowing full well the subject Flint wished to discuss. "Yes, you may speak your mind without any hesitation," he replied, granting Flint permission to address the issue openly.
Observing the courtiers who lingered nearby, Flint sensed the need for privacy in their conversation. "I would like for Your Grace to dismiss the court for today, as I need to discuss the matter in private," he added, emphasizing the importance of confidentiality in their discussion.
Azar pondered for a moment before nodding decisively. "You heard the Duke. I shall dismiss the court immediately," he announced to the perplexed assembly. The attendees exchanged confused glances before rising from their seats, unable to defy the Emperor's command. With a slow and steady exodus, the hall emptied until only Flint and Azar remained. The doors behind them were closed, sealing off the chamber from prying eyes.
In that moment, Flint dropped to his knees, bowing his head in deference. "Your Grace, have I committed a crime against the Empire?" His voice trembled with genuine fear, a stark departure from his usual demeanour. Azar was taken aback by Flint's sudden display of submission, rising from his throne almost instantly.
"Flint, get to your feet!" Azar's voice reverberated with authority, commanding Flint to rise. However, Flint remained obstinately kneeling, determined to receive an explanation before obeying any further commands. Seeing his resolve, Azar descended the steps of his throne, standing before Flint with a stern expression. "It is an order. Rise!" His tone was colder and more authoritative than before.
Flint met Azar's gaze squarely, his expression a mix of anguish and desperation. "I need an explanation, Your Grace," he began, his voice quivering with emotion.
"To what?" Azar inquired, though his tone betrayed a hint of unease.
Flint struggled to articulate his thoughts, his words catching in his throat as if weighed down by an invisible burden. He instinctively reached for the ring adorning his finger, seeking solace in its familiar touch. "Why did you send off the Crown Princess to Solyria?" he finally managed to ask, his voice laced with pain. "Above all, you—" His voice faltered, choked by a surge of overwhelming emotion.
Azar exhaled heavily, a profound weariness etched into his features. "I think of you as my son, Flint. You are no less than Noori to me. I just didn't have a choice," he confessed, his voice tinged with regret.
"Why?" Flint pressed, his anguish palpable. "Why was this her only choice? To marry an enemy? And to tell the people of Nuria that she is off to make matters better in Solyria? The people don't even know that she has gotten married." His words resonated with a deep sense of betrayal and confusion.
Azar's explanation hung heavily in the air, sinking into Flint's consciousness like a heavy stone dropped into a still pond. The weight of his words settled upon Flint's shoulders, his features contorted in a mix of disbelief and anguish.
"Why?" Flint questioned, his voice tinged with concern. "I thought you said if she stayed in the cold mountains of Nuria, she would be okay."
Azar's expression softened, a shadow of sorrow passing over his features. "We thought so, but it wasn't getting any better. The crack in her soul orb is getting bigger and bigger," he explained, his touch gentle yet burdened with the weight of his revelation. "I was afraid she might die if it breaks completely, so I sent her away."
Flint absorbed the gravity of Azar's words, the realization of Noori's precarious condition dawning upon him with chilling clarity. A mixture of fear and resignation flickered across his face as he grappled with the harsh reality of the situation.
Flint's voice trembled with a mixture of desperation and hope as he sought answers from Azar. "So what now? Will she always be there? What about Nuria? What about me?" His words dripped with frustration and fear, his heart heavy with the weight of uncertainty.
Azar's response brought a glimmer of relief to Flint's anguished expression, momentarily easing the burden that had settled upon him. "No, I have received news. The Nymph Whisperer that we have been looking for is in Solyria. If we are able to find it, we might find the missing piece of the Soul Orb. She can be cured," Azar explained, his tone infused with cautious optimism.
A surge of disbelief and longing swept through Flint as he processed Azar's words. "She will be okay? Just like before?" His voice cracked with emotion, his heart clinging to the fragile hope that Noori's suffering might finally come to an end.
Azar nodded solemnly, his gaze unwavering. "That is what we are hoping for," he affirmed, his words carrying the weight of their shared aspirations for Noori's recovery.
"Your Grace, Please allow me to go to Solyria. I want to see Noori for myself. PLease give me the permission."