For eight centuries, the House of Varrion ruled Aurelian with absolute authority. But two hundred years ago, the monarchy surrendered political power and became a constitutional symbol — at least in the eyes of the public. In reality, they remained the silent spine of the nation, safeguarding a trillion-dollar hidden empire, an ancient intelligence network, and a legal authority over national integrity that no elected government could touch. To most of the world, they were tradition. To those who understood power, they were still one of the most influential families on Earth.
The royal plane touched down smoothly on the runway of Al-Rasima, a wealthy Gulf nation known for oil, tall glass towers, and gold architecture. King Edmund and Crown Prince Nathan had arrived here for a state visit—meetings, agreements, and diplomacy.
Outside, the evening sky glowed orange and pink. Warm wind moved across the runway. Soldiers stood in perfect lines. Officials waited in pressed suits and traditional robes. Cameras were ready. Everything looked controlled and perfect.
The plane door opened.
King Edmund stepped out first.
He walked slowly down the steps—calm, confident, and serious. He didn't wave or smile much. He didn't need to. His presence was enough. People watched him with respect.
Crown Prince Nathan came next. His smile was easy and warm. He waved and a few people in the crowd cheered louder. He shook hands with officials and spoke a few polite words in their language. His pronunciation made a few people laugh softly, but in a friendly way.
A news reporter spoke quietly on live television:
"His Majesty and His Royal Highness begin their visit to strengthen ties with Al-Rasima."
Two Royal Guards followed behind them. Their eyes scanned everything—people, rooftops, exits. They said nothing. Their focus never broke.
One guard touched his earpiece.
"Clear."
The other guard nodded.
So far, everything seemed safe.
The motorcade moved through Al-Rasima's main boulevard. The roads were lined with palm trees wrapped in lights. Tall buildings reflected the sunset. Small flags from both nations decorated the streets.
Inside the car, Nathan watched the crowd from the window.
"They put a lot of effort into this," he said, voice relaxed.
King Edmund kept his eyes forward.
"Yes. People always do when they want something from you."
Nathan gave a small laugh.
"You always say things like a warning."
Edmund answered softly, "Experience teaches caution."
Nathan didn't argue. He just nodded and looked back out the window.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Far away, in a snowy European town, Prince Harrold sat quietly in a café near a university. Snow fell outside the window and melted into small drops of water. The café smelled like coffee and warm pastries.
Harrold didn't look like royalty. He wore simple clothes: a dark sweater, plain jeans, and a coat hanging beside his seat. His notebook was open in front of him, filled with handwriting and a few messy doodles in the margins.
His life was quiet. No cameras. No schedule. No attention.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Nathan.
Nathan:Father tried speaking Arabic again. I think the waiter's soul left his body.
Harrold smiled a little and typed back:
Harrold:Please record it next time.
No reply came. Nathan was probably shaking hands again.
Harrold put his phone down and kept reading.
Around him, students chatted softly. Someone laughed from another table. The snow outside kept falling.
Everything felt normal.
Safe.
Simple.
No one in the café noticed the exact moment the world began to shift.
Somewhere in Al-Rasima, someone was already moving into position.
Someone who didn't care about flags or cameras or smiles.
Someone who wasn't there for diplomacy.
Harrold didn't know it yet.
Nathan didn't know it.
Not even King Edmund knew.
But this quiet evening would not stay quiet.
Not for long.