After a nerve-wracking wait of about ten minutes, the magical gate began to glow with a soft, pulsating light. Everyone present held their breath, their bodies trembling with anticipation as they waited for what was about to come through. Slowly, a shadowy silhouette emerged within the shimmering portal, gradually becoming clearer. It was an elderly man with white hair, dressed in the formal robes of a royal official. His presence commanded respect and calm despite the tension in the air.
It was Gordon Reveit, the royal secretary who had faithfully served the crown for over fifty years, his loyalty and experience evident in his steady gaze.
"Greetings from the Nakmarov family," he said in a clear, formal tone. With a precise flick of his wrist, a glowing magical clock materialized beside him, its hands ticking down the final moments. "The king and queen will arrive within the next minute. Are you all prepared?"
Victor swallowed hard and nodded, his nerves barely contained. "Yes, as you can see, all my descendants have gathered," he said, glancing over the group with a mixture of pride and anxiety. "Though my little son is still quite young for such an important occasion, we will do our best to keep him calm and composed."
Gordon's deep laugh rang out, breaking the tension like a warm breeze. "Fear not," he said reassuringly. "Neither I nor any of my ancestors who have served in this position have ever witnessed the king grow angry over a small child's behavior. You can put your worries aside and focus on the moment ahead."
The group exchanged relieved glances, the weight of uncertainty easing slightly as the glowing gate shimmered brighter, signaling the imminent arrival of their monarchs.
Gordon looked steadily toward the gate, his eyes narrowing as he saw several silhouettes slowly beginning to take shape within the glowing portal. He waited for a moment, then called out loudly, his voice carrying clearly across the gathered crowd. "All present are requested to show respect for the arrival of the Shining King and the royal family. Please, bow."
At his command, everyone present, including Gordon himself, moved carefully into the customary position. They knelt partially, bending their bodies with reverence, while placing their right hands over their hearts—a traditional gesture of loyalty and honor observed in such solemn moments.
From the gate, five impressive figures emerged, one after another. These were clearly members of the royal family, their presence commanding the attention of every person assembled.
The king appeared first. Despite his probable age of five thousand years, he looked slightly younger than Victor, a fact that surprised many. His face was clean-shaven, revealing sharp, piercing eyes that seemed to see far beyond the present moment. He was tall and imposing, carrying an air of authority. Unlike many kings who wore crowns, he wore none. Instead, he was dressed in formal military attire, a uniform that emphasized both his strength and his role as leader. Yet, what caught the eye most was his hair—it shone as if it were made entirely of real gold, glimmering brilliantly in the light. This golden trait was shared by the rest of the royal family, marking them unmistakably.
The queen followed, dressed in equally impressive clothing that befitted her rank. Her long hair sparkled under the sunlight, resembling a perfectly molded gold nugget, though it was, in fact, real hair. Her expression was completely blank, almost unreadable. Those who dared to look at her face for more than a brief moment often felt a sudden shiver run down their spine. An inexplicable fear would wash over them, as though they were staring at something unnatural, a being not meant to exist in the world. Because of this eerie effect, most people simply avoided looking directly at her.
Behind them appeared their three children, each carrying the weight and promise of the royal lineage. First was the Crown Prince, who had the appearance of a serious eighteen-year-old boy. His expression was one of focused determination, and his gaze was fixed intently on the subjects bowing deeply before him. His hair was short, meticulously trimmed, and perfectly styled, reflecting the discipline expected of a future king. He was dressed in clothes fashioned in a style very similar to his father's regal attire, underscoring his status and the responsibilities he was preparing to shoulder. Hanging from his belt was a large sword, an emblem of his training within the Royal Order of Knighthood, marking him as a warrior in the making as well as the heir to the throne.
Following closely was his younger brother, who looked only slightly younger than the Crown Prince. However, his appearance was less formal; he wore looser clothes that did not carry the same strictness as those of the Crown Prince or the other nobles present. His golden hair was arranged in a fashion typical of young men of the current day, flowing freely and casually, hinting at a more relaxed nature or perhaps a different role within the family's expectations.
Lastly, there was their sister—the only princess. She was the singular object of admiration among the noble young men of the continent, her presence commanding attention effortlessly. Her hair was spread gracefully down her back in gentle waves, catching the light with every subtle movement. She smiled a big, radiant smile that could warm the hearts of all who looked upon her, embodying both charm and grace.
"Dear people," the king spoke, his voice strong and steady, carrying a powerful blend of authority and tenderness. "Rise. I am proud to be in your presence. You proudly represent our people."
At his command, everyone present rose to their feet. As they did so, they noticed that, in addition to the royal family and their usual entourage, two other important figures had arrived to stand among them. One was an impressive and tall knight, clad in shining silver armor that gleamed brilliantly under the light. A huge sword hung from his armor, its presence commanding respect. The man's long, straight hair reached down to his waist, flowing like a silver river. This knight was none other than the heir to the main White family and Tanya's older brother. He was known far and wide as the commander of the Order of the White Phoenix Knights, known also as the Shining O'Clan. This order was the strongest in the kingdom and served as the main offensive force, capable of dealing devastating blows to their enemies.
Standing next to him was the heir to the main house of the Golden families, Hypatia. She was Diana's older sister and held the esteemed position of commander of the Royal Order of Knights. Her uniform was identical to that of the Crown Prince, symbolizing her role and rank within the kingdom's military structure.
"We are proud to host the royal family," Victor said, his voice steady and calm on the surface, though beneath that composed exterior lurked a terrible fear he worked hard to conceal.
The king smiled warmly in response, his tone sincere and gracious. "We are more than happy to be here," he said, his eyes meeting Victor's with a genuine sparkle of goodwill. "How are things with you, Victor, my friend?" he added, stepping forward to embrace Victor in a friendly hug, a gesture that spoke of respect and camaraderie.
The king was a man who cherished power and wisdom above all else. This was well known among the high nobility, and it was clear to everyone that he held Victor and his esteemed Nakmarov house in very high regard. Yet, despite the outward show of mutual respect, very few people knew the truth beneath Victor's carefully crafted demeanor — how deeply he feared the king's formidable presence and influence. Victor was a skilled actor, adept at hiding his true feelings behind a mask of loyalty and composure, carefully navigating the delicate balance between honor and self-preservation.
"Everything is fine with us, Your Majesty," Victor said, gesturing toward his family. "As the king can see, these are my three wives, and behind them are my children."
The king turned his gaze toward the family and looked them over. "Wow," he said, impressed.
Suddenly, a small voice rang out. "You look amazing," exclaimed Victor's youngest child, pointing directly at the king.
Victor looked flustered and quickly stepped in. "I apologize on his behalf—he's just a small boy."
But the king smiled broadly. "That's quite all right," he said warmly. "I haven't seen a boy this age in many years." Then, turning to the child, he asked, "What is your name, little Nakmarov?"
"My name is Milo," the boy answered happily. Then he tilted his head and asked, "What is your name?"
The king paused for a brief moment, realizing this might have been the most honest and direct question he had been asked in a long time. A smile spread across his face. "Confiros," he replied, looking at the boy with amused fondness.
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" the king asked him.
Milo furrowed his brow and fell into deep thought, making such an exaggeratedly serious face that even the queen let out a small chuckle.
"I want to be a strong knight who protects my sisters," he declared proudly. Then, leaning in slightly and lowering his voice like someone sharing a great secret, he added, "They're very delicate, you know, and there are many bad people who can harm them."
The king couldn't contain his laughter any longer. He burst out laughing—heartily, joyfully, like he hadn't laughed in a very long time. Then, without hesitation, he scooped little Milo into his arms.
"You have a very smart son," he said to Victor, clearly delighted. "I would be honored to accept him into our Order of Knights when the time comes." He turned to call out, "Hypatia! You'd better get ready. He's going to be your student in the future!"
A joyful atmosphere settled over everyone present, lifting the tension in the air and bringing warmth and lightness to the moment.
The princes standing behind couldn't help but be surprised by what they had just witnessed.
"Father has never been so kind to any of us," said the second prince, narrowing his eyes slightly as he watched the king laugh and lift the young boy into the air. "Am I wrong, Velupt?"
He turned to his older brother, the Crown Prince, whose expression remained unreadable—calm, serious, but with a hint of something brooding beneath the surface.
"He's only being nice to the boy because he doesn't want to frighten him," Velupt replied in a quiet, measured voice, never taking his eyes off the scene. "But don't get me wrong, Tharwin. I suggest you don't act too freely. He is still the same person."
There was a brief silence between them as they watched the king laugh—truly laugh—in a way that neither of them had ever seen before. It made them uneasy. That laughter was not something they associated with their father. Not the man who ruled the kingdom with iron will and relentless precision.
A short while later, the adults moved away to discuss important matters in a more private corner of the hall. Their voices softened into murmurs as they stepped beyond earshot. The younger members of the gathering were left behind, expected to entertain themselves in each other's company.
The Crown Prince instinctively moved to follow the adults, his steps purposeful and confident, but he was stopped in his tracks by a sharp look from the Queen. She didn't need to raise her voice—her gaze alone was command enough.
"You are young. Stay with the young," she said, her voice low but firm.
He froze instantly, standing rigidly in place. The look in her eyes was not one he dared challenge. He knew the rules—rules unspoken but carved deep into his bones. Disobeying his mother meant stirring her disapproval, and her disapproval always reached the king. And when the king was displeased… there were consequences.
"Okay," he muttered, his voice laced with frustration as he reluctantly stepped back.
With the adults gone, Victor's children immediately seemed to breathe more freely. The weight of etiquette and formality lifted, and their expressions brightened. Mark and Stephen approached Tharwin eagerly, their curiosity winning over their initial shyness.
They began chatting with him enthusiastically, asking about his life, his training, and the strange rumors they'd heard about the royal family. Tharwin, to their surprise, was very friendly and responded with equal enthusiasm. He seemed to enjoy their company, laughing with ease and listening intently. Though few knew it, Tharwin had lived for over a thousand years. But mentally, emotionally, he remained very much like a sixteen-year-old—a young man suspended in time, stuck in the same restless, curious phase as the boys before him. For the first time in many decades, he felt like he belonged.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Marie and Sophie approached the princess with wide eyes and carefully rehearsed words.
"I am Marie," said the elder of the two, giving a small, graceful curtsy. She spoke with perfect manners, trying to sound older and more refined than she was. Her voice was steady, but her eyes sparkled with excitement.
"Nice to meet you, Marie. My name is Oniri," the princess replied, her voice warm and melodic.
Marie's admiration shone openly on her face. "Your hair is really beautiful," she said. "I can see my reflection in it."
Oniri laughed softly. "Thank you," she replied with a smile. Her tone was light, but there was kindness in it. "And what is your name?" she asked, turning to the quieter girl.
"I'm Sophie," came the soft, almost whispered reply. Sophie kept her eyes down and her hands folded in front of her, clearly shy and unsure.
The three girls continued to talk, slowly finding a rhythm to their conversation. Oniri was easy to speak with—gracious, attentive, and patient. Marie asked many questions and shared little stories, clearly hoping to impress. But in truth, her attention was often drifting. She kept glancing at the Crown Prince, who stood apart from the group, not engaging in conversation, his arms folded behind his back and his eyes scanning the room like a sentry on duty.
Noticing her gaze, Oniri leaned slightly toward her and whispered with a knowing, amused smile, "Don't even try."
Marie blinked, startled. "What do you mean?"
Oniri sighed with a small, half-playful, half-resigned expression. "All the girls in the capital have been trying to win his attention for the past two centuries. Not one of them has succeeded."
Those words—meant as a warning—sparked something else entirely in Marie. A kind of thrill. A secret joy bloomed in her chest. If no one had won his heart… maybe she still had a chance.
The prince was striking—his eyes piercing, his posture proud, his presence commanding. She couldn't explain why, but she wanted to understand him, to reach past the wall he kept around himself. She wanted to be the one exception.
Sophie, on the other hand, showed no interest in the prince at all. She didn't like his perfectly shiny hair or his overly serious expression.
But even the princess herself didn't know that her brother already had someone in his heart—someone for whom he was secretly trying to convince their parents to leave the palace for the first time in a long time.
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The blizzard struck Tom in the face like a wall of ice, and he wondered—not for the first time—how he had gotten himself into this predicament. He and Mr. Bloom had set out on their journey four days ago under a clear sky and hopeful spirits. Now, the sky was white with fury, and they were trudging through a relentless snowstorm, just the two of them, surrounded by nothing but wind, snow, and endless mountain slopes.
To make matters more surreal, the old man walked calmly through it all, seemingly unaffected, and continued to tell Tom all sorts of strange, half-believable tales about the mountain people. Some of the stories were bizarre and Tom couldn't decide whether the man was serious or simply trying to distract him from the cold.
"How long will it take us to get there?" Tom asked, his voice nearly lost in the howling wind.
"Tomorrow," Mr. Bloom replied without breaking stride. "By tomorrow, we'll reach the main village of the mountain people." Then, glancing at the darkening sky, he added, "But for now, we should rest."
With a practiced motion, Mr. Bloom pulled a small, round capsule from his coat pocket—an object Tom had come to recognize over the course of their journey. It was no ordinary item; it was a magical tool, one of the rarest gifts bestowed upon their village by the old man of the magnificent Magic Tower. According to legend, the capsule could hold nearly anything inside it—if you knew how to use it.
Mr. Bloom certainly did.
He tossed the capsule into the air, and it activated instantly. With a quiet hum, it unfolded into a compact but sturdy structure, shimmering briefly as a hard energy barrier formed around it, shielding it from the elements. To Tom's amazement—no matter how many times he saw it—the shelter always felt like something out of a dream. It was sleek and warm on the inside, with soft lights, cushioned seating, and a faint, calming scent of herbs and woodsmoke.
Tom stepped inside with a sigh of relief, brushing the snow from his shoulders. The sudden warmth embraced him like a blanket, and the howling of the blizzard was reduced to a distant murmur, barely audible through the shelter's protective field.
His body ached from the cold, and his eyelids felt heavy. Despite the storm raging just beyond the walls, Tom found it easy to forget the peril they were in. The shelter felt safe, almost like home. Within minutes, he was wrapped in a thick blanket on one of the padded benches, already drifting toward sleep.
They had a long day ahead of them tomorrow—and deep down, Tom knew it would be more than just a physical journey.