For three days, palace servants had scrubbed the steps until they shone. Cooks inspected every lettuce leaf, every wine bottle – what if the Waldmarians tried to poison the king right at the table? Every carpet in the palace had been beaten as if for God himself to walk upon, not just some enemy delegation.

Konrad stood at the main gates, immaculate in his dress uniform. Behind him, twenty guardsmen stood ready – not for ceremony, but in case negotiations went wrong. He'd inspected their formation thrice: swords in place, pistols loaded, faces unreadable.

The carriage bearing black dragons on its doors rolled to a stop at the steps. The horses snorted, as if sensing foreign soil. Konrad didn't flinch, only his white-gloved fingers tightened slightly.

The door opened.

He took exactly three steps forward – no more, no less. His bow was precise as a sword thrust – deep enough by protocol, but without a shred of real respect.

"Welcome to Lichtenfels," he said, his voice measured like gunpowder for a musket. "Your quarters are prepared. Negotiations begin in one hour."

His steel-gray eyes flicked over the Waldmarian visitor, noting every detail – dress folds, possible weapons, facial expression. Nothing more – just cold professional assessment.

Behind him, the guards stood frozen as statues. The air hung thick with silence – tense as a bowstring before release.

Konrad turned, gesturing toward the tall oak doors. Not a single crease moved in his uniform.

"If you'll follow me."