Cletus Hickenbottom had finally achieved something rare in High Meadow: a drama-free afternoon.

  After weeks of monster nonsense, diplomatic headaches, and his ongoing fight against the universal constant known as “other people’s bad decisions,” he was savoring the peace.

  He sat in the open workshop yard of the forest-walled city, leaning over the exposed engine guts of Kotetsu

  “Reckon this is the closest I’ll get to a day off,” he murmured, tightening a bolt.

  He stretched his back and mentally reviewed the recent “jobs” he’d taken.

  Local problems like the ettercaps. The big, creepy spider-folk had been dragging people into trees. Cletus had solved it with a jury rigged leaf-blower, three gallons of homemade bug spray, and his best “quit bein’ ornery” tone. The spider-folk had scattered like guilty raccoons. Surprisingly, nobody got hurt. The captives were soon returned to the town. The Adventurers Guild were still calling it “non-lethal chaos sorcery.”

  Then there was the bridge troll. Poor guy wasn’t really trying to eat anyone. He just wanted to eat in general. Nobody understood him because his roar sounded like a boulder having an existential crisis. But Cletus understood the situation and gave the fella a hand -- He'd built a little gate, carved a “ONE COPPER” sign, and walked the troll through counting change. Once that was put in place, the townsfolk had found the troll to be cordial and friendly and he started to introduce himself as Boll.

  "Wanna take a stroll?

  You gotta pay the toll

  To the troll

  His name is Boll."

  Catchy.

  Problem solved. Troll happy. Merchants happy. Bridge stable.

  Then there were the slimes. The endless waves of slime herds had swarmed orchard after orchard and threatened the local farming around High Meadow on a regular basis. Honestly the easiest of the problems. You smack ’em, they wiggle, you smack ’em again, they stop wiggling. Weirdly satisfying. And they fed Kotetsu’s need for fuel, put some copper in his pocket, and kept the beer flowing at the Inn.

  Yep. A quiet day felt well-earned.

  He reached for the rag he’d left on a crate—soft, neatly stitching, smelled faintly of lavender. He didn’t know where it came from, but it made a good face-wiper, so he dragged it across his cheek without a second thought.

  He was about to dive back into the wiring when— he paused.

  Was that… music?

  A faint shimmer of sound drifted through the forest beyond the walls— a music so impossibly ornate it felt less like noise and more like light given voice. High, crystalline trumpets burst forth in shimmering cascades, each note refracting through the air like a prism struck by dawn. Flutes joined them in effusive spirals, their melodies weaving silk ribbons of sound that coiled and danced among the treetops. The woodwinds arrived next, their rich tones unfurling like velvet banners in a moonlit hall. And beneath it all surged the bass—deep, resonant, ancient—rolling through the forest floor with solemn majesty, as though the earth itself recognized royalty and rose to greet it.Cletus frowned and looked up.

  Pink and blue flower petals were drifting down from the sky.

  “…Huh.”

  More petals floated down. Dozens. Hundreds. Enough that the workshop yard looked like it was being aggressively romantic him.

  Cletus stared upward. “Kotetsu? Did someone set the weather to cheap romance?”

  The windshield wipers squeaked once, a startled flinch, as if he were trying to swat petals off a nose he didn’t have.

  Then—

  “Cletus!

  He jumped so hard his wrench clattered to the ground.

  Liraelith Elanathriel Starbloom Vaeloria stood halfway behind a stack of lumber, looking like she’d run straight out of a disaster.

  He hadn’t even realized she was nearby.

  “Dang, Lira, warn a fella,” he muttered, wiping his forehead with the rag again.

  She froze. “That kerchief—wait, no—never mind!”

  “What was that?” Cletus asked, still wiping.

  “NOTHING,” she blurted, cheeks pink. Her eyes looked a little wet. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

  But it wasn’t

  It was hours of hand-stitching, every thread pulled tight in the quiet of her room, the kind of careful work she only bothered with when something . She’d picked the colors on purpose, poured in more determination (and maybe a few embarrassingly sentimental thoughts) than she’d ever admit. She’d even redone the damn embroidery twice because it hadn’t come out

  enough for… for him.

  And now he was just— Wiping his face with it. Like it was a shop towel.

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  Like it was .

  Infuriating man. Infuriating, oblivious, stupidly kind man.

  Nope. She refused to let him see any of that on her face.

  “It’s nothing,” she repeated, sharper. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

  The music outside grew louder. More ornate. More dramatic. More… Elven.

  Liraelith clutched her head. “Oh no. Oh no. That is the Imperial Arrival Prelude. That means—”

  A brilliant bloom of magical light flared beyond the gate.

  “—my father is coming.”

  Cletus blinked. “Your… pa? Right now?”

  “Yes!” she hissed. “We need to—he’s going to—Cletus, just—just stand still and don’t say anything weirdt! Or literal! Or casual! Actually just—don’t say anything!”

  The fanfare intensified until it vibrated city’s walls.

  Cletus watched as the petals thickened into a full shimmering cascade.

  “Well,” he said, utterly calm, “reckon he’s someone important?”

  Liraelith pressed her palms to her face. “This is going to be a disaster.”

  The city gate creaked open.

  The trumpets hit a triumphant crescendo.

  And the Elven King’s procession began to pour in like a walking opera. the musicians entered first—an entire phalanx of them, gliding in perfect formation as though their feet weren’t touching the ground at all. Their instruments gleamed with moon-metal inlaid with filigree so delicate it might have been spun from morning frost. Harps shaped like blooming lilies. Flutes carved from crystal that refracted rainbow shards across the courtyard. Trumpets flared wide like the petals of celestial flowers. They took their places along either side of the main road, forming twin rivers of color and sound. As they lifted their instruments in unison, the music shifted seamlessly into a grander, more ostentatious theme, the kind that made even the trees stand a little straighter out of instinctual respect—or intimidation.

  Next came the Royal Guard. Dozens of them marched in synchronized precision, each bearing a halberd that gleamed with enough polish to double as a crime-ready mirror. Their armor—if it could even be called armor—was an elaborate spectacle of silver-leaf plates and overlapping filigree, each piece etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly with contained power. Every movement sent ripples of pastel light across their breastplates, making them look less like soldiers and more like mobile art installations built to ruin the self-esteem of every other guard force in the world. They formed a corridor of immaculate menace, halberds angled with ceremonial sharpness.

  Then the King arrived. His chariot was a floating platform wrought from living wood and starlight, pulled by two unicorns so radiant they made the sunlight look like it needed to try harder. Their hooves struck the stone in perfect rhythm, sending up small chiming notes with each step. The King himself stood tall, draped in layers of shimmering emerald and silver fabrics that flowed around him like enchanted waterfalls. His crown rose in branching arcs like the antlers of some ancient celestial stag, every metallic point glowing with soft inner light. Behind him came the royal advisors, each on a smaller, slightly less ostentatious chariot—still elegant, still impossibly Elven, but muted enough to make it abundantly clear who the main event was.

  And finally, at the rear of the procession, the Black Guard. They moved silently, their armor matte-black and trimmed with onyx edges that swallowed the light rather than reflected it. No heraldry. No insignia. No sound except the soft whisper of their boots. Even the petals seemed to avoid drifting too close to them, as though the air itself was wary.

  High above, perched on the tallest parapet, Raven stiffened. They watched the procession with the stillness of a gargoyle carved from pure disdain. The moment the Black Guard stepped through the gate, something cold slid beneath their ribs, a prickle like steel scraping along instinct. Their gloved hand drifted toward the hilt of their dagger—not to draw it, but out of old habit, the kind meant for creatures who lived in the thin space between vigilance and violence. Raven didn’t know who those shadow-cloaked elves were. Raven didn’t know what they wanted. But the Scout’s eternal truth stirred in their chest like a whispered omen:

  At last, the lead royal advisor shuffled forward.

  He was an Elf so ancient he looked as though centuries had folded him carefully in half. His back curved like a question mark carved from old oak, his long silver hair draping past his shoulders in riverlike strands that shimmered with residual glamour. His robes were heavy with sigils of office—scrollwork, seals, embroidered histories weighing him down almost as much as time itself. His eyes, though, were sharp. Sharp enough to have witnessed empires rise and fall, and sharp enough to immediately register the chaos potential emanating from Cletus like heat off an oven.

  He stopped before the gathered townsfolk, leaning on a rune-carved staff that hummed faintly with restrained magic. When he spoke, his voice was thin but authoritative, rippling like silk dragged across stone.

  “People of High Meadow,” he intoned, “prepare yourselves to witness the august arrival of His Radiant Majesty, Aelarion Vaelorian Stardusk Thalanthir, Sovereign of the Verdant Courts, Keeper of the Silver Bough, First Light of the Moonlit Crown, He-Who-Walks-with-Unicorns, Protector of the Ancient Pact, and High King of the Elevenfold Dominion.

  The musicians struck a shimmering chord—because of course they did.

  The advisor lifted his chin. “And attending him, as ordained by celestial decree and courtly proclamation, is the Princess’s honored consort—”

  Liraelith made a sound like someone being strangled by their own future.

  The advisor lifted his chin. “And attending him, as ordained by celestial decree and courtly proclamation, is the Princess’s honored consort—”

  Liraelith made a strangled, high-pitched noise that sounded like someone trying to swallow their own dread.

  “—Duke Falanrackthresis Beuragardio Starcrest, Lord of the Sapphire Glades, Warden of the Silverbloom Vale, Bearer of the Ninefold Signet, and Chosen Heir of the Cerulean Line.

  A faint breeze blew through the courtyard — or maybe that was Liraelith’s soul attempting to flee her body.

  The Duke’s chariot rolled forward behind the King’s, gleaming with ostentatious filigree and smug self-satisfaction. Falanrackthresis himself stood tall at its center, hair cascading in perfect waves, every strand so artfully arranged it was probably illegal in at least three mortal kingdoms. His expression was a polished blend of aristocratic superiority and effortless charm — the face of a man who had never lost an argument, a duel, a competition, or a single strand of hair to humidity.

  His smile sparkled like weaponized confidence.

  Liraelith let out another noise — this one lower, more despairing — like a harp choking. Her hands curled into fists. “Oh no. Not him. Anyone but .” She looked one catastrophic heartbeat away from bolting into the forest and never returning.

  And down below, entirely oblivious, Cletus squinted at the Duke’s chariot, scratched his chin with Lira’s hand-stitched rag, and asked:

  "How's it hangin'?"

  Dead silence.

  A petal drifted lazily onto Cletus’s shoulder.

  Cletus blinked once, twice, then stepped forward. “Howdy,” he said cheerfully. “Name’s Cletus Hickenbottom. I didn’t catch your name though?”

  The old Elf froze, as though no one had ever asked him such a thing.

  “Oh,” he said faintly. “I’m… Tom.”

  Cletus smiled, hand extended. “Nice t’meet ya, Tom.”

  Tom stared at the hand like it was a live grenade someone had politely offered him. Then, after a long moment, he reached out and shook it with the air of a man doing something both dangerous and vaguely thrilling.

  And somewhere in the Black Guard, a single armored figure tilted their head ever so slightly—as if silently acknowledging that the chaos had finally begun.