The carriage rolled through the castle's main gates, passing beneath an archway that towered thirty feet overhead. Guards stood at attention as they entered, their salutes crisp and synchronized in a display of military discipline that spoke to extensive training.

Sir Christophe guided them through courtyards that seemed to stretch impossibly far, gardens maintained with such precision that every plant appeared positioned by master architects. Fountains carved from white marble sent water cascading in patterns that defied gravity, magical enhancement making the displays more art than simple decoration.

"His Majesty has arranged accommodations befitting your service to the kingdom," the knight explained as they approached the castle's main entrance. "You'll find the hospitality here reflects the crown's genuine appreciation for what you've accomplished."

The doors opened before them, massive panels of reinforced wood bound with enchanted metal that moved with surprising grace despite their obvious weight. Beyond lay an entrance hall that made even the grandest noble manors seem modest by comparison.

The ceiling soared overhead, supported by columns carved with intricate designs that told Westia's history through visual narrative. Magical lighting bathed everything in warm radiance that suggested perpetual golden hour, the illumination coming from no visible source yet illuminating every corner perfectly.

Servants lined the halls, their expressions carrying genuine welcome rather than the forced courtesy common in noble households. They bowed as the group passed, gestures respectful without being obsequious.

"The warmth here is remarkable," Anastasia observed quietly, her experience with noble politics making her sensitive to genuine versus performative hospitality. "This isn't standard protocol for visitors, the king is extending considerable honor."

They were guided through corridors that seemed designed to impress, each turn revealing new wonders of architecture and magical enhancement. Tapestries depicted historical moments with detail suggesting they'd been woven by Master rank artisans, armor displays showed weapons and protection that had been worn by legendary figures, windows offered views of grounds that stretched for miles.

Finally they reached a set of doors that opened into a formal receiving chamber, the space clearly designed for important meetings rather than casual audiences. The room was elegant without being ostentatious, furniture arranged to facilitate conversation while maintaining appropriate ceremonial distance.

"His Majesty will receive you shortly," Sir Christophe announced before withdrawing.

They waited only minutes before the far doors opened, admitting the royal family with ceremony that was subdued compared to what formal occasions would demand.

King Harold entered first, his bearing carrying authority that transcended simple political power. He was middle-aged, perhaps forty-five, with cinnamon brown hair showing distinguished streaks of gray at the temples. His blue eyes were sharp, missing nothing as they tracked across the assembled group with assessment that felt simultaneously evaluating and welcoming.

He wore relatively simple clothing for royalty, practical garments that suggested he prioritized function over display. But the crown resting on his head left no doubt about his position, the circlet radiating power that spoke to enchantments accumulated across generations.

Beside him walked a woman whose elegance made the queen's title seem inadequate description. Her beauty was refined rather than striking, the kind that came from decades of carrying herself with absolute confidence. She wore a gown that complemented rather than competed with her husband's presence, the clothing clearly expensive but not ostentatious.

And following them came their daughter.

Princess Fedora was perhaps eighteen, her cinnamon brown hair falling in waves that caught the magical lighting. Her blue eyes were bright with intelligence, tracking across the group with curiosity that suggested genuine interest rather than political assessment.

She was stunning in ways that transcended simple physical beauty, though that was certainly present. Her skin was flawless, pale complexion suggesting careful maintenance and natural blessing combined. But what captured attention was her figure—curves that the formal gown she wore couldn't conceal, an hourglass shape that made the dress seem designed specifically to complement her natural form.

Her bust was prominent enough to be noticed without being excessive, the proportions balanced perfectly with hips that gave her silhouette distinctive shape. She moved with grace that suggested extensive training in courtly deportment, every step measured and elegant.

Raze recognized her immediately, game knowledge providing context that his companions lacked.

Princess Fedora wasn't just royalty, she was one of the game's Seven Saints—individuals destined for greatness who would shape the kingdom's future in significant ways. Her path in the original timeline had involved political marriage and diplomatic service, her natural charisma making her perfect for negotiations that required more than simple authority.

But that future wasn't guaranteed now, not with how much the timeline had already diverged.

He noticed her eyes tracking toward him specifically, a blush coloring her cheeks that suggested she'd formed opinions about him before this meeting. Whether from the broadcast or other sources, she apparently knew who he was and had developed some reaction to that knowledge.

"Please, be at ease," King Harold said, his voice carrying warmth that seemed genuine rather than political. "You've earned the right to stand in my presence without excessive formality."

The group relaxed slightly, though maintaining appropriate respect for royalty.

"Lady Anastasia," the king continued, acknowledging her with a nod. "Your courage in documenting your husband's crimes over five years deserves recognition beyond simple thanks. The kingdom owes you a debt that will be difficult to properly repay."

Anastasia inclined her head, accepting the acknowledgment with grace born from noble upbringing. "I did only what conscience demanded, Your Majesty. The crimes were too extensive to ignore, regardless of personal cost."

The king's attention shifted to the others, his blue eyes studying each of them in turn. When his gaze landed on Helena, his expression softened noticeably.

"Helena," he said, dropping formality momentarily. "My niece, the journalist whose work has consistently served truth regardless of political convenience. Your production tonight was masterful, presenting complex evidence with clarity that made denial impossible."

Helena smiled despite her exhaustion, pleasure evident in her features. "Uncle Harold," she replied, the familial address carrying affection that transcended political relationship. "The evidence presented itself, I simply ensured it reached the people who deserved to know."

The king's expression returned to formal courtesy as he addressed the group collectively. "What you've accomplished tonight will reshape Westia's governance for decades. The corruption you exposed reached levels I suspected but couldn't prove without comprehensive evidence. Your broadcast provided that proof in a way that left no room for political maneuvering or institutional cover-up."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing.

"The trial will commence tomorrow, official proceedings that will determine consequences for those you've implicated. I wanted to meet with you beforehand, to understand the full context beyond what the broadcast revealed and to ensure you're properly prepared for what comes next."

"However," the queen interjected, her voice carrying motherly concern despite addressing strangers, "you've clearly endured significant trauma tonight. That conversation should wait until you've rested and recovered properly. Tomorrow before the trial will provide adequate time for detailed discussion."

"Agreed," King Harold said. "For now, you'll remain in the castle as honored guests. Accommodations have been prepared that reflect the crown's appreciation, and you'll have access to any resources or services you require during your stay."

Anastasia spoke carefully, her tone deferential but firm. "Your Majesty, if I may make one request? My son Thomas remains elsewhere in the capital, I would be grateful if arrangements could be made to bring him here where I can ensure his safety."

The king nodded immediately. "Of course, Sir Christophe will dispatch guards to retrieve him within the hour. Your son will be brought here and provided quarters near yours."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Anastasia said, relief evident in her posture.

King Harold glanced at his family, some silent communication passing between them before he returned his attention to the group. "I must attend to other matters arising from tonight's events. The arrests are proceeding smoothly but require coordination at the highest level. We'll speak again tomorrow morning before the trial begins."

He turned to leave, the queen and princess following. But Fedora glanced back at Raze one more time, her blush deepening slightly before she caught herself and faced forward again.

Once the royal family departed, servants emerged to guide them to their quarters.

The rooms were extraordinary, suites rather than simple chambers. Each had a main living area furnished with comfort that exceeded most nobles' private quarters, sleeping areas with beds large enough for three people, and bathing rooms with facilities that suggested magical enhancement for water heating and purification.

Raze found himself in a corner suite whose windows overlooked the castle gardens, the view spectacular even in darkness. Magical lighting illuminated the grounds below, creating a landscape that seemed pulled from dreams rather than reality.

Servants arrived within minutes, offering food and drink that made the capital's finest restaurants seem inadequate. The meal was comprehensive without being excessive, balanced nutrition prepared by what were clearly Master rank chefs whose cultivation specialized in culinary arts.

After eating he was offered a bath, the servants explaining that the water was maintained at perfect temperature through enchantments and contained minerals that would accelerate recovery from exhaustion and minor injuries.

He accepted, sinking into water that felt like liquid comfort. The heat penetrated deep into muscles he hadn't realized were tense, weeks of accumulated stress beginning to unwind as the magical properties worked through his system.

He'd just begun to truly relax when a knock sounded at his door.

"Enter," he called, assuming it was a servant with some additional amenity.

The door opened to reveal Princess Fedora, her formal gown replaced with something simpler though still clearly expensive. Her cinnamon brown hair was loose now, falling past her shoulders in waves that framed her face perfectly.

Her blue eyes met his through the steam rising from the bath, that same blush from earlier returning to her cheeks.

"I apologize for the intrusion," she said, her voice soft but clear. "But I was hoping we could speak privately, if you're amenable?"

Raze felt his own face heating slightly, suddenly very aware that he was naked in a bath while a princess stood in his doorway looking at him with expression he couldn't quite interpret.

This was definitely not how he'd expected his evening to continue.

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