The carriage moved.
Slowly at first, then faster, rolling calmly over the old stone roads, its wheels echoing softly through the morning hush.
One by one, it joined dozens of other carriages, all advancing toward the palace amid ceremonial chants, music, and dancers lining the streets.
Kendra felt the change the moment they crossed the inner gates.
Power saturated the air.
It pressed against her skin, seeped into her lungs, and settled deep in her bones, a silent warning that this was no ordinary city, nor an ordinary destination.
This was the Palace of Elarian.
It rose from the heart of the capital like a monument to divinity itself.
Towering walls of pale crystal stone veined with gold stretched impossibly high, their surfaces carved with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly with restrained power. Floating platforms hovered at varying heights, connected by bridges of condensed light. Vast towers spiraled upward, disappearing into drifting clouds, their peaks crowned with rotating arrays of glowing runes.
Wealth glittered openly.
Luxury revealed itself in every detail.
Power thrummed through stone and sky alike.
Magic lived here, ancient, watchful, undeniable.
The carriages slowed as they approached the palace's outer court.
One by one, they came to a halt upon a vast platform of white stone that stretched farther than the eye could see. The moment the wheels stopped, it was as if the hearts of all the maidens stopped too. They sat quietly in their carriages, holding their breath, bracing for what would come next.
A deep, resonant chime rang through the courtyard.
The carriage doors opened simultaneously.
The maidens were escorted down, some in fear, some in panic, some already submitted to fate. Hundreds of girls stood upon the platform, dressed in ceremonial robes of varying colors, faces pale with dread or bright with forced excitement.
Some trembled.
Some stared in wonder.
Some stood rigid, already resigned to fate.
They were escorted into the inner court by high-level guards. There was no shouting, no force, only ceremony. They were ushered forward in honor, an honor they never wanted.
Inside, the palace burst with celebration.
Dancers moved through the air with flowing magic. Nobles and court ministers of Elarian sat drinking and feasting. Laughter echoed beneath towering arches.
And above it all sat the King.
There he was, Zachaeus, the King of Elarian.
Seated atop the radiant golden throne, appearing somewhere between forty five and fifty years old, his eyes burned with blinding fire, an embodiment of divine authority. The throne itself blazed with golden light, crowned with spires of flame and gold, a sight so overwhelming it could shatter the will of the powerless.
The King sat tall, robed in hardened elegance. His crown, no mere ornament, was an ancient relic pulsing with forgotten magic, resting upon hair as dark as midnight silk. His presence alone was enough to silence any crowd.
His gaze passed over the gathered maidens, calm, measuring, absolute.
For several seconds, he did nothing, just stared.
To anyone watching, it seemed as though the King was simply observing. But in truth, his power stretched outward, skimming through every maiden, every soul, seeing even the families who had dared to hide their daughters and believed themselves clever.
The maidens trembled under his unseen scrutiny.
Without rising or speaking a single word, he lifted one hand, flinging his robe. The fabric shifted with the motion, releasing a wave of restrained inner power.
The music faded.
The air split.
From above, as if descending from the heavens themselves, seven figures appeared.
Four men.
Three women.
They landed before the throne without a sound, yet the force of their arrival sent a crushing wave of inner power through the court, so strong that several maidens staggered back, breath stolen from their lungs, hearts pounding wildly.
These were no one but the Divine Sentinels.
The four men stood tall in flowing white robes, their forms rigid and imposing. Smooth silver masks concealed their faces entirely. Each held a magical artifact, a staff or ancient relic so charged with power that everyone in the court could feel its weight without a single word spoken.
And the three women stood slightly apart.
Their robes were slimmer, layered in white silk that moved like mist. Delicate silver beaded veils draped over their faces, hiding everything but their eyes. Those eyes shone, sharp, unreadable, ancient.
They did not smile.
They did not speak.
They only stood, letting the weight of their presence swell through the hall before bowing in unison, one hand pressed to their chests in reverence to the King.
The celebration did not stop.
But from that moment on, no one laughed freely.
Because the trials had truly begun.