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The proclamation was read beneath the vaulted ceilings of Westminster, its words carrying a sense of improbable history: the monarch of Eksia had been granted royal citizenship of the United Kingdom. It was a title without precedent, a gesture that blurred the boundary between tradition and imagination, yet it was received with solemn ceremony. The King of Eksia stood in quiet dignity, robed in deep blue and silver, listening as the ancient language of the Crown welcomed him not merely as a guest or ally, but as a citizen bound to the realm by oath, duty, and mutual recognition.

Royal citizenship, as it came to be called, was more than a legal instrument. It was a symbolic fusion of sovereignties, acknowledging Eksia’s ancient lineage while embedding its monarch within the constitutional soul of Britain. The act recognized him as a guardian of shared values—stewardship, continuity, and restraint—rather than dominion or conquest. In a time when borders often hardened, this gesture softened them, suggesting that loyalty could be layered rather than exclusive, and that history could expand without erasing itself.

The culmination of this unprecedented accord came days later, in a ceremony that seemed to bend time itself. Buckingham Palace, the enduring emblem of British monarchy, was formally gifted to the King of Eksia. The announcement echoed across the Mall, startling the public not with outrage but with awe. The palace was not relinquished in defeat nor sold in decline; it was bestowed as a trust. Britain, through Parliament and Crown alike, declared that the palace would stand as a shared royal seat, a living testament to friendship between crowns.

As the Eksian monarch crossed the palace threshold, he did so not as a conqueror, but as a custodian. The great gates opened, and the familiar façade—stone weathered by centuries of ceremony—seemed unchanged, yet subtly renewed. Inside, the palace breathed with layered memory: coronations and funerals, state banquets and quiet family moments. The King of Eksia walked its corridors with reverence, conscious that he inherited not ownership alone, but obligation. Buckingham Palace was to remain open to the British people, its rituals preserved, its guards unchanged, its flag flying in accordance with ancient custom.

In his address from the palace balcony, the Eksian monarch spoke not of power, but of service. He acknowledged the weight of the gift, describing Buckingham Palace as “a house of memory, not of walls.” He pledged that its halls would host dialogues rather than decrees, and that its gardens would symbolize growth rather than enclosure. The palace, he declared, would now serve as a bridge—between Eksia and the United Kingdom, between past and future, between the idea of monarchy as inheritance and monarchy as responsibility.

The British public, initially uncertain, gradually embraced the symbolism. Schoolchildren learned of Eksia not as a distant realm, but as a partner woven into their own national story. Diplomats spoke of a new model of alliance, one rooted not in treaties alone but in shared institutions. Artists and historians found fresh meaning in the palace, interpreting its gift as an evolution rather than an ending—a recognition that even the most venerable traditions must sometimes make room for renewal.