The gates of Nevareth's Imperial Palace stood like ancient sentinels carved from glacial ice, their surfaces etched with frost-runes that pulsed faintly with protective magic. They had stood for centuries, witnessing coronations and coups, weddings and wars, the slow turn of dynastic power beneath the eternal winter sky.
Today, they opened to admit a viper wrapped in silk.
The carriage that rolled through bore the crest of House Virelya, a silver wolf rampant against a field of midnight blue, crowned with stars that represented the Border Territories' strategic position between empire and wilderness.
It was a declaration, that crest, a reminder that the Virelyas commanded lands where civilization met savagery, where military strength was not merely ornamental but essential.
