The sun rose over Highridge with a blood-orange hue, casting long shadows over the battlements. The war banners from Westmark still hung in the courtyard—tattered, blackened at the edges from the flame that had tried to consume them. Victory was theirs, but Kaelin knew better than to call it peace.
Inside the royal chambers, the scent of parchment, old steel, and lavender clung to the air. Kaelin stood before the full-length mirror, fastening the last clasp of her ceremonial armor. Not for battle—but for appearance. Power had to be worn like a weapon.
Theron entered behind her, adjusting his own collar, cloak draped loosely over his shoulders.
"The envoys have arrived. Seven different territories. Two foreign monarchs. And Vessar’s former allies are demanding answers."
Kaelin arched a
