I Was Reborn in Another World, But I Awoke Inside a Corpse

Chapter 121: The Six Thrones of Elaraiya

The skyship descended through a halo of clouds, gliding in graceful silence toward the heart of the Elven Kingdom.

Isaac stood at the edge of the deck, his arms crossed, the wind tugging at his coat. Lira leaned against the railing beside him, lips parted slightly as her eyes scanned the view unfolding below them.

"Okay," she muttered, "I'm officially impressed."

The city of Elaraiya rose from the forest like something out of myth. It was not built atop the land, but within it. Towers of white and gold were carved from living trees, woven with spiraling bridges of silverleaf wood. Roads gleamed with mana veins, winding between elevated platforms that floated above the canopy like hovering gardens. No stone touched the earth without reverence.

But nothing held the eye like what stood in the very center of the capital.

Yggdrasil.

The World Tree.

It wasn't just massive. It was unimaginable. Its trunk was broader than any mountain, its roots winding through the continent like a second heartbeat. Its canopy vanished into the clouds, as if it pierced the sky itself. Even Isaac, who had faced gods and legends, felt his breath slow at the sight of it.

"That's…" Lira trailed off. "That's real, right?"

"Yes," Sylvalen answered as she stepped beside them, her tone serene but reverent. "It has stood since before the kingdoms were named. Some say the gods placed it here. Others say it birthed the gods."

"And you built your capital around it?" Isaac asked.

"We didn't build anything," Sylvalen said. "The city grew with the tree."

As the ship banked smoothly toward a wide landing platform near the base of one of Yggdrasil's roots, more details came into view—spiraling elven walkways, glowing sentry wards, and glimmering sky gardens that shimmered with moonlight even though the sun still hovered low on the horizon.

Elven guards waited in perfect formation, their armor elegant and gleaming, helms crowned with silver plumage. They did not move, nor speak, until the ship's skystone anchors met the platform.

Then one of them stepped forward and bowed.

"Princess Sylvalen Thalara Elaraiyan. The capital welcomes your return."

Isaac felt her shoulders tighten beside him. She stepped forward, head high, her expression calm.

"I return with guests," she said. "Treat them with the same respect you would show me."

The guards bowed again, this time slightly deeper.

Lira whispered, "So… does that mean no stabbing anyone until we're off the platform?"

Sylvalen didn't smile, but her voice held a flicker of humor. "Correct."

They were escorted through the outer courts—massive, sweeping structures formed from the hollows of ancient trees, their interiors glowing with gentle magic, their columns wrapped in living vines that shimmered with light.

As they moved deeper into the capital, Sylvalen began to explain.

"The Elven Kingdom is not ruled by a king or queen. There is no single throne," she said. "Instead, we are governed by six dynasties, each with an equal vote in all matters of national importance."

"Your dynasty is Thalara," Isaac said.

"Yes," she nodded. "And our kingdom's full name is Elaraiya. Every child born into one of the ruling dynasties is given the title of prince or princess. I am the ninth daughter of Thalara—thus, Ninth Princess Sylvalen Thalara Elaraiyan."

"Seems like a lot of royalty," Lira said.

"And even more politics," Sylvalen replied. "Each dynasty holds its own philosophy and power base. Our votes decide everything—from law to war to what color the palace banners will fly during midsummer."

Isaac arched a brow. "Functional democracy… with noble titles?"

Sylvalen gave a dry smile. "You'll find it's less functional when three dynasties want to quietly replace you, two want to manipulate you, and one just wants to keep singing."

She gestured toward a wide, arched hall. "Let me name them before you meet them."

She counted on her fingers.

"Thalara, my house—tradition, memory, and moon-magic.

Vaelorn—military strength, border security, often aggressive.

Y'selaria—priesthood and divine law, deeply conservative.

Naelith—seers and spies. They deal in secrets.

Lorienn—our merchants and diplomats, rich and charming.

And Eryndros—artists, historians, and devout followers of Freya, the goddess of beauty."

The palace's inner sanctum was quiet and colder in mood.

Their arrival was not unnoticed.

Sylvalen's older sister, Lady Aelira—First Princess of Thalara—stood waiting at the top of a curved stairwell, flanked by advisors and guarded nobles.

Her eyes went immediately to Isaac.

Then the Spiritforge Blade on Sylvalen's back.

"You return with… unusual company," Aelira said, voice like polished glass. "The council was not told you'd forged a divine weapon with an outsider."

"I didn't ask their permission," Sylvalen said coolly.

"And you brought him here? Into the capital?"

"His presence is necessary."

There was a long pause.

Then Aelira said, "The Council has summoned you. And him. They wish to know what he is."

Isaac didn't react. But inwardly, he noted the shift in temperature. Politeness was gone. What awaited now was examination.

Scrutiny.

Possibly worse.

Sylvalen turned to him briefly.

"They'll question you. Try to break you into something they can understand."

Isaac's voice was calm as he replied, "Then I'll speak in a language they don't."