The missive arrived before sunrise.

  It bore the golden seal of Aurelia—the Imperial City. A wax-pressed sigil of the twin-headed lion over crossed laurels. The courier who carried it said not a word, merely bowed and turned away the moment it passed into Captain Maldran’s hands.

  He read it once. Slowly.

  Then he folded it, tucked it inside his coat, and turned to the circle of agents waiting in the underground chamber beneath Rewen’s library.

  “The Emperor has responded,” he said. “Thalgrenn’s little prince is to be transported immediately. Alive. Untouched.”

  He paused, his voice gaining a hard edge.

  “No more games. This is now a matter of state.”

  ---

  Tanir stood in the corner, arms bound, lip split from interrogation.

  “State?” he scoffed. “You treat your state’s guests like criminals.”

  Maldran looked at him with vague disinterest. “You're not a guest. You're a smuggler. A petty one.”

  Tanir grunted.

  “You’ll pay a fine for obstruction,” Maldran added. “And then you’ll be released.”

  Tanir blinked, genuinely surprised.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. The Emperor has no use for you. Consider yourself lucky.”

  He was dragged from the chamber before he could reply.

  ---

  Karl was already awake.

  He sat calmly in a guarded room, wrists bound but not gagged, posture straight. No shouting, no struggling. Just quiet watching.

  When Maldran entered, their eyes met.

  “We’ll be leaving within the hour,” the captain said. “Try to behave like the royalty you are.”

  Karl didn’t respond.

  Outside, the city stirred beneath grey clouds. Rain misted over the rooftops of Rewen, and down in the stables, the Ravens were preparing the caravan.

  Three wagons.

  The first held Karl, seated beside two Ravens with rifles across their laps. His wrists were no longer chained, but his sword had been taken. His cloak was wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The second wagon held the five players.

  ---

  They were buzzing with energy.

  “I swear this is a faction-locked quest,” said the student. “Like we just got recruited into the Empire’s storyline.”

  “This is totally the escort arc,” the researcher nodded. “Probably got a prestige reward at the end.”

  “I hope it’s gear,” said the pervert. “Aurelia’s gotta have a good loot table.”

  The old soldier sighed, staring out through the slats of the wagon.

  “None of you think it’s weird they arrested us for no reason?”

  “Bro,” the adrenaline junkie grinned, “We’re the heroes. They just don’t know it yet.”

  None of them noticed the way the Ravens watched them with tight jaws and unreadable expressions.

  ---

  The third wagon held Lieutenant Maric.

  He was bound, gagged, and furious.

  As the wagons rolled out of Rewen’s southern gate, the rain thickened. The cobbled road turned to gravel, then to dirt. Trees lined the way, leaves dripping with water, and far in the distance, beyond low-rolling hills, the misted banners of Aurelia would one day rise.

  They were on their way to the heart of the Empire.

  ---

  Tanir stood outside the city gates, arms crossed, watching them disappear.

  A guard passed him a folded parchment—his release terms. He barely glanced at it.

  His gaze lingered on the first wagon, on Karl’s unmoving silhouette.

  “A prince,” he muttered. “I’ll be damned.”

  He spat into the mud and turned north, back into the wild.

  ---

  The days passed in heavy silence.

  The Ravens were not talkative escorts. They rode flanking the wagons, ate without conversation, and kept their weapons close. The players entertained themselves by playing guessing games, composing theories, or trying to convince the guards they were “from a faraway land across the sea,” which only made things worse.

  Karl sat quietly for most of the journey. Occasionally, one of the Ravens would glance at him with a mixture of caution and respect—he was still technically royalty.

  On the third evening, Maric was moved to Karl’s wagon for a brief stretch, so the guards could shift rotation.

  The two men sat opposite one another for the first time since the ambush.

  “You realize what you’ve done?” Maric growled, still bruised. “You’re dragging this entire kingdom into flames.”

  Karl looked at him.

  “I didn’t ask to be dragged back into this.”

  “But you were. And now you’ll be used.”

  Karl said nothing.

  “I fought for the Empire,” Maric continued. “I believed in what we stood for.”

  Karl raised an eyebrow. “And what was that, exactly?”

  Maric hesitated. His jaw worked. He looked away.

  The wagon rumbled onward.

  ---

  Late on the sixth day, the clouds broke.

  The road dipped through a carved pass, and there—emerging from the far side—was Aurelia.

  Even from leagues away, it glittered.

  Golden domes caught the dying sunlight, towers speared the clouds, and the Imperial Banner hung from every visible arch and gate. Walls of white stone formed the outer ring, but within them rose an inner tier of palaces and spires, layered like the petals of a flower—layer upon layer of power.

  The players gasped in unison.

  “Dude.”

  “This place is freaking gorgeous.”

  “Please let us unlock a teleport point here.”

  One of the Ravens scowled. “Shut it.”

  They shut it.

  But not before the student whispered, “Totally worth getting arrested.”

  ---

  Karl didn’t speak.

  He kept his eyes on the skyline. He remembered being very young, once, and seeing those domes from a different angle—from a palace window.

  He had thought them beautiful, then.

  Now they just looked cold.

  ---

  The convoy camped one final night at the foothills outside the capital.

  A lone messenger rode ahead to announce their arrival. Protocol, even for prisoners.

  Inside the central tent, Maldran opened his satchel and withdrew a final parchment.

  A new letter.

  Imperial seal. Direct from the Citadel.

  He read it carefully.

  Then folded it away and stepped outside.

  “Prepare them,” he said. “They enter the Golden Gates tomorrow.”