(Public Proclamation of Continental Peace)
At high noon, the golden city of Solaris hummed with a tension thick enough to carve with a blade.
For three painful weeks, the royal capital had been locked beneath martial law. Iron gates had barred the avenues, black ironclad cavalry had patrolled the thoroughfares, and terrifying rumors had spread from wine shops to merchant stalls like wildfire. That the aged Emperor was dead, that the eastern forest was unleashing demonic hordes. That every able-bodied son between fifteen and forty would be marched into the frozen marshes to die under dragon-fire giant crossbows.
Yet on this bright spring morning, the dark black war banners hanging from the soaring stone castle walls of the royal palace had been stripped away.
In their place hung long silk ribbons of pure white and brilliant harvest gold, fluttering lazily in the mountain breeze. The rattling iron war-drums that had scared the populace were fully silent. Instead, from atop the palace watchtowers, thirty-six long bronze trumpets sounded clear, ringing notes that rolled across the rooftops like morning bells.
Drawn by the fanfare and royal heralds, the Great Sun Plaza—a massive square paved with white river granite spanning nearly a league across—began to swell with people.
