The sun rose high over the gleaming gates of Elarion, casting golden light across the marble path that led from the Spine of the World. At its end stood King Alarion and Queen Seraphiel, regal and composed, though their eyes held the weight of caution and years of scars. Beside them stood their son Kaelenor, calm yet hopeful, his hands clasped behind his back. Flanking them were guards in silver armor and a line of robed officials, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, unease, and restrained judgment.

From the chasm beyond, the Noctyran youths emerged. Cloaked in dark leathers and robes, their presence struck sharp against the purity of Elarion’s light. You walked at the front, steady and unreadable, followed by Varek with his sly smirk, Nyssira’s pale gaze drifting over the crowd, Thorne’s heavy silence, Elenith’s restless eyes, Draevan’s proud posture, and Selira’s cold composure.

A hush fell. The officials whispered among themselves—some skeptical, others uncertain. Queen Seraphiel’s gaze lingered on each of you, searching for intent. King Alarion kept still, his jaw tense. Then, Kaelenor stepped forward, breaking the silence with a respectful nod. The moment held—fragile, historic, and full of quiet hope.