The journey back toward the Silver-Crest Manor was not a retreat, but a triumphal procession. The air had changed; the sharp, biting hostility of the mountain passes had mellowed into a crisp, invigorating breeze that tasted of victory. Behind them lay a North unified not by the threat of the sword, but by the weight of a shared promise.
Nyx rode at the center of her Triumvirate, her posture no longer stiff with the defensive armor of a survivor, but relaxed with the quiet confidence of a sovereign. As they crossed the threshold of the manor’s valley, the sun began to set, casting long, liquid shadows of gold across the road.
"We have the Fells, the Port, and the Valley," Caspian said, pulling his horse closer to hers. His silver hair caught the fading light, shimmering like a halo. "The
