The air smelled of summer roses as Saelar arrived at the Ivory Garden Estate, ancestral seat of House D'Arvenelle—one of the most powerful elven noble houses in the Kingdom of Avareth. The estate brimmed with floral precision, and among it all stood a young woman like a sculpture in motion.
Myrcella D'Arvenelle.
Her honey-blonde ringlets cascaded in tight curls to her chest. Clad in a silver-trimmed emerald dress, she greeted Saelar with a curtsy perfected over years of noble etiquette.
> "You must be… Saelar Velgaeron. I've waited a long time for this meeting."
Her voice was soft but firm, with the weight of responsibility. He bowed.
> "And I've long awaited the one my mother entrusted her hopes to."
They retired to a shaded pavilion surrounded by swaying wisteria. There, tea awaited. Saelar watched her with curiosity as she sniffed, steeped, and poured with surgical elegance.
> "You drink tea wrong," she said without malice as he reached for a cup.
He raised a brow. "Do I?"
"Yes. Too quick. Tea is a dialogue, not a monologue. It demands patience."
They talked.
Myrcella revealed how her father, King Thamior, had prepared her from a young age to become Empress—training her in statecraft, economics, diplomacy, and war.
> "I won't smile and flatter you if I think you're making a mistake," she said calmly. "But I will never betray you."
He met her gaze. The Emerald eyes were sharp but not cold—like spring rain on glass.
> "Then let us face the empire together. As wife and husband. Not out of duty, but shared purpose."
Myrcella blushed faintly but nodded. "Agreed."