The morning after the battle, the camp was restless. Though the fires of grief still smoldered in every heart, the soldiers were alive with a different energy—anticipation. Word had spread like wildfire: the Riverlands had risen.
Cael sat astride his stallion at the head of the column. Snow crunched beneath hooves as the army began its march southward, banners snapping in the cold breeze. Every step carried them closer to Elandor, closer to the throne, closer to the reckoning that had been denied him since birth.
But Cael knew well enough—marching to the capital was not the same as claiming it.
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Whispers Along the Road
For days, the army wound its way through the frostbitten valleys. Villages peered from behind shuttered windows, uncertain whether the passing banners brought delive
