Location: New Berlin, Reich Capital — Elven Delegation Arrival
The wheels of the elven carriage echoed against the wide, polished stone of the northern road. The last rows of pine trees faded behind them, replaced by iron lampposts, arched bridges, and the glint of distant rooftops. The outer defenses of the human capital — quiet, ordered, and unnatural — gave way to something else entirely.
From the rear of the convoy, the banner of Elenor caught the wind — a silver leaf over deep green silk. On both sides of the carriage, Sword Knights of the Royal Guard rode silently, their armor detailed with curling leafwork, their blades sheathed but ready. Each bore the ancient leaf crest of the Greenwood Court — a symbol of timeless power.
Inside the carriage, Lord Caelthas Vaeloriin, eldest voice of Elenor's diplomatic council, sat tall and rigid. His golden braid lay neatly across his chest, his hands folded over his knee. He wore a robe of dark green silk with silver clasps, trimmed in the old ways — elegant, regal, immovable.
Across from him, Princess Sylvariel Elarinne lounged with the practiced disdain of someone born into superiority. Her high-collared traveling coat of blue-gray velvet shimmered faintly in the light, its edges embroidered with silver thorns. Her gloves were pearl-white, her hair bound into a single, smooth coil. She gazed out the window with narrowed eyes.
"Humans," she murmured, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeve. "They build fast and break faster. They have no bloodline, no harmony. And now they call us to speak, as if their voices weigh the same?"
Caelthas didn't look at her. "We are here for retrieval, not insults."
Sylvariel scoffed. "Retrieval? We come to collect escaped livestock who butchered a noble heir of the High Branch. And we're expected to negotiate? With their Führer?"
She leaned in, voice low and sharpened.
"We should strip this place of its illusion. Break their walls. Make them servants. They'd obey well. Simple work — fields, ovens, boots to shine."
Before Caelthas could respond, the carriage slowed, and the driver's voice shouted from the front:
"We have arrived — the capital of the Reich. New Berlin!"
Sylvariel rolled her eyes. "New Berlin. As if calling it 'new' gives it age."
She turned and peeled back the thick velvet curtain.
She froze.
The city before them was not smoke-choked. Not broken. Not wild.
It was impossible.
White buildings — vast, smooth, symmetrical — stood in perfect rows along wide paved avenues. Each facade was trimmed in iron rails, long windows, and stone balconies. No moss. No overgrowth. Just precision. The sky was gray, but the city glowed, cold and pale.
The streets were filled with people. But not the desperate kind.
Men wore gray or black overcoats, tailored at the waist, collars turned up. They sported fedoras and leather gloves, briefcases in hand, some with cigarettes between fingers as they stood in small groups, talking and laughing with ease.
Women walked beside them in buttoned coats, patterned skirts, and low heels, their hair styled into curls or buns beneath wool hats. Some carried grocery bags. Others pushed carts or shared quiet smiles with their companions.
"They're... dressed like nobility," Sylvariel muttered.
"No," Caelthas replied, voice steady. "They are dressed like a nation."
She looked again — and spotted not one broken step, not one ruined face.
The air shifted. Steam hissed from beneath a metal grate. Sylvariel jolted back in her seat, hand instinctively reaching for the rune hidden in her cuff.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered.
A long metal carriage — squared, wheeled, and windowed — rumbled past on rails set into the stone. It glided with a low hum and a pulse of escaping pressure. No horses. No oxen. No elemental runes.
"What in Elenor is that?" she hissed.
"A machine," Caelthas answered slowly. "But not like the dwarven tinker carts. This is... something else."
"But there's no magic. No mana. How does it move?"
"I don't know."
Civilians stepped onto the tram from raised platforms, chatting softly. No conductor barked commands. No guards. It simply moved, guided by some unseen will — steel and steam and smoke.
The scent hit next.
Garlic. Pepper. Roasted meat.
Vendors lined the street corners, grilling skewers over open flame, slicing bread from long loaves, or serving soups from hot metal pots. Children ran through steam clouds with paper bags, laughing. Some waved small flags.
A large storefront rolled by.
FLEISCH & SOHN – MEAT FOR THE PEOPLE
The letters were blocky and clean. The windows shimmered with cold light. Inside, men in white aprons wrapped packages in paper. There were no magical runes. No glowing glyphs. Only tools. Only systems.
"How is this possible?" Sylvariel asked, her voice thinner now. "They have no druidry. No windcraft. No heatstones."
"They've replaced it," Caelthas said, his voice quiet. "With something else."
Ahead, a group of figures crossed the intersection.
At the front — a giant in black armor, almost seven feet tall, carrying a strange iron weapon across his back. It was not a blade. It had no edge, no string, no staff — just mass, thickness, and purpose.
His movements were slow. Deliberate. Unshakable.
Behind him came three men in black coats with red trim, their faces clean-shaven, eyes sharp. Silver pins glinted on their collars. They bore long rectangular weapons slung over their shoulders, and their boots struck pavement in perfect unison.
Sylvariel stared.
"What… what are those?"
Caelthas answered, his voice low.
"I saw one once. At the western border. It tore a charging beast apart from a hundred paces. It didn't reload. It didn't stop."
Sylvariel blinked slowly, lips parted.
"That's not a weapon. That's a... curse."
The four soldiers entered the butcher's shop. The door chimed gently. Inside, the butcher bowed and wrapped cuts of meat in thick wax paper.
"Yes, honored officers. Just finished cutting."
"Make it quick," one of the men replied. "We're due at the northern station in one hour."
Sylvariel sat back, quietly, her confidence finally dented.
"This city… it wasn't supposed to be like this."
Caelthas did not look at her. His gaze remained on the flags above. On the people. On the motion of a civilization that did not need spells to stand.
"No," he murmured. "Nor did I expect it. Something here has shifted."
He clenched his hands together.
"And whatever it is — it does not fear us."