The sun rose over the the Elven capital, its gentle golden light scattering through enchanted trees and glimmering wooden bridges.
Birds chirped in haunting harmony.
A cool breeze carried the scent of starroot and moonberries.
Arthur hated every second of it.
He sat cross-legged on the mossy stone path outside the Elven Transportation Registry Office.
His clothes were rumpled, his boots scuffed, and his hair—usually the pride of his battle-ready image—was now wild and sticking out like a disgruntled hedgehog.
He held a clipboard in his lap, filled with absurd checkboxes, official stamps, and a line titled "Affirmation of Humility."
"I am not signing that," he muttered to himself.
A passing elf gave him a polite bow. "Still not approved, Sir Arthur?"
Arthur shot him a glare. "Apparently I need a permit to apply for a travel permit."
The elf smiled with the same serene smugness all elves seemed to master by age five. "You'll get used to it."
