The sun hung high in the sky as the vibrant pulse of the capital echoed through its winding streets. Each corner throbbed with life—merchants bellowing their wares, children darting between carts, and the metallic clang of distant forges ringing out like the heartbeat of the kingdom. But beneath the hum of ordinary life, an unspoken tension coiled, taut and waiting. Today was no ordinary day.
Lenora swept through the marketplace like a storm cloaked in silk. Lucien's stallion—dark as the void between stars—cut through the crowd with the quiet power of something wild and unchained. At her side, strapped in thick heavy chains that bounded him to the portable cart, dragged behind by some horses and guarded by soldiers, was the Black Clan's commander. A trophy.
She sat tall in the saddle, every inch the war-forged sovereign she aspired to be. Gasps rose as she passed. Eyes followed her. Some stared in awe, others in horror. All in silence.
