To put it simply, their appearance was something that should never have crossed the sea and yet here they are and were being welcomed.
And then it happened.
A few members of the envoy looked directly at them.
Not by accident.
They smiled. Bowed, even.
Not in jest, not in mere diplomacy—but in recognition.
One of them, a keen-eyed apeling named Irema, narrowed their gaze as they scanned the visitors. Their faces stiffened. A few members of the envoy's delegation—dressed more plainly, perhaps attendants or guards—had turned their heads toward the apelings. Not by accident. Not in passing. Their eyes found them directly, and held their gaze. One even smiled gently and offered a respectful bow.
The apelings, trained for centuries in discipline and spiritual control, responded as they had been taught—smiling in return, tilting their heads in polite acknowledgment. But the moment they turned their backs, their expressions fell.
