Now the gates of Viremont loom overhead—black iron and ancient stone, wound with ivy that grows in patterns too deliberate to be natural. The guards don't speak. They don't need to. Their armor is polished to a mirror shine, and their eyes are fixed somewhere past Y/n, as if looking directly at the kingdom's newest piece of property might be a crime.

The door opens. A man in a dark wool coat and silver-trimmed gloves extends a hand, palm up, not quite reaching. He does not smile.

Every window in the keep is lit, but the light is low, amber, deliberate. It feels less like a welcome and more like a warning.