Location: Ministry of Foreign Affairs, New Berlin
The carriage wheels rolled to a soft stop outside the towering white structure of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Wide steps led to massive iron-framed doors, flanked by marble pillars. Red flags swayed gently from the balconies above, the black hooked cross rippling against the snowy breeze.
A statue of a human woman stood tall in the center of the roundabout — one hand raised, the other clutching a book. Carved words at her feet read Ordo. The torchlight played along her blank eyes.
The Sword Knights of Elenor dismounted in unison. A lead knight stepped forward, armor flashing green under the lanterns. With formal precision, he drew his sword and planted it beside him, then raised his voice for all to hear:
"Presenting Princess Sylvariel Elarinne of the Greenwood Court — third heir to the High Bough of Elenor, envoy of peace under banner truce."
Sylvariel stepped down from the carriage, head high, chin sharp, her coat trailing behind her like it ruled the ground. She paused at the base of the steps, expecting bows — maybe applause, maybe curious murmurs.
Instead, Ministry workers walked past her.
Clerks with suitcases. Uniformed women in heels. Officers in peaked caps and black coats. Men in charcoal suits smoking thin cigarettes. No one stopped. No one bowed. No one cared. At best, they glanced — at worst, they didn't look at her at all.
"What the fuck is this?" Sylvariel muttered under her breath. "Are they blind?"
Caelthas descended behind her, calm and deliberate. "They are humans. And this is their capital, not our court."
"I am a princess," she hissed. "Not some messenger boy from the dwarves."
"Then act like one."
They climbed the stone steps. At the top stood a line of Reich guards in long black coats, rifles held at rest across their chests. Their expressions were unreadable.
As the elves approached, two guards stepped forward.
"Halt," one barked. "State your business."
Caelthas held out a sealed scroll. "We are the Elenorian diplomatic delegation. We were summoned by the Reich's Ministry to speak on behalf of—"
"Didn't ask for your life story," the second guard cut in. "Names. Identification. Clearance."
Sylvariel stepped forward, her voice sharp.
"You will lower your voice when addressing royalty."
The guards glanced at each other.
"Oh yeah?" one muttered. "The fuck are you supposed to be? Fancy tree elf with a mouth on her?"
Her eyes widened.
"You dare—"
"Shut it, barkskin," the younger guard growled. "You think this is your forest? You come here flapping your ears and waving your titles like they mean shit?"
The first guard stepped closer, rifle still low but his voice rising.
"Filthy lower race stepping up to us?" he snarled. "We should kill you right here, you fucking tree-hopping motherfuckers."
The second guard laughed. "Say that again?"
"I fucking said we should kill these stick-eating, twig-fucking—"
Sylvariel's fury exploded. Her voice rang out, fury unfiltered:
"WHAT. THE. HELL. DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?!"
A flash of raw magic surged around her — orange and white — fire spiraling around her palms. The temperature spiked. Sparks crackled across her coat sleeve as her lips parted to cast.
Rifles snapped up — six barrels aimed at her chest. The guards didn't hesitate. Safety catches flicked. Fingers on triggers.
"Weapons up! She's casting!"
"Try it, you glowing bitch! I dare you!"
But they weren't the only ones trained.
Her knights stepped between her and the rifles in a single movement. One raised his shield. The other drew his blade partway — not to threaten, but to shield her with his body. His voice rang out, cool and crisp.
"Stand down."
"Back the fuck off!" a guard barked.
"No," Caelthas said sharply. "All of you, stand down."
The tension was an arrow drawn tight. Breath held. Magic pulsing. Steel gleaming.
And then —A man's voice, firm but not loud:
"What's going on here?"
A man in a clean black business suit stepped forward from the grand entry hall. His tie was pinned with a silver clasp; his black gloves were tucked neatly into his coat. He looked across the chaos — the drawn rifles, the glowing hands, the blades, the snarling guards — and his eyes focused first on Sylvariel.
Then he spoke again.
But not in Common.
In Elenorian. Almost perfect. Elegant. Trained.
"Please… stand down. This is a misunderstanding."
Everyone paused.
Even the wind stopped.
Sylvariel blinked. Her fire flickered — but didn't go out.
Caelthas stepped forward, his voice low and commandful. "Lower your weapons."
The knights sheathed their blades. The fire around Sylvariel's hands slowly dimmed, her face still trembling with restrained rage.
The human guards hesitated — until the man in the suit turned toward them and said, in cold, clipped German:
"You're dismissed. I will handle this. Now."
The guards, stiffly, lowered their rifles.
No apologies. Just obedience.
The man returned his gaze to the elves and gave a small, courteous bow — not low, but just enough.
"I am Albrecht Morgen, Ministerial Aide to Foreign Affairs," he said calmly. "Your arrival was noted. And this… unpleasantness… will not be repeated."
He gestured to the massive doors behind him, now slowly opening.
"Please," he said, "follow me inside."
Caelthas gave Sylvariel a look — not pitying, but expectant.
She inhaled once. Sharp. Then stepped forward, brushing past the guards without so much as a glance.
The doors of the Ministry swallowed them.
And the city watched.