The ride back from Calma was long and bitter.
The once-proud banners of the capital's army now fluttered limply behind General Vidal's retreating column. Dust choked the air, kicked up by a hundred hooves, and silence reigned—thick, awkward, and simmering with frustration. Not even the clank of armor or the creak of saddles could soften the humiliation that hung over them.
Balder Vidal hadn't spoken since Calma's gates were closed in his face. His jaw was locked, his knuckles white against the reins, and his mind raced with questions he dared not ask aloud.
How had Prince Alaric done it? How had the banished prince turned a forgotten border town into a fortress? Who was helping him—and why?
Prince Alaric stood atop the Argus tower. From there, he could see the fires of Vidal's army dwindling in the distance. A cold wind tugged at his cloak, and below, the gate buzzed with quiet activity—patrol rotations and final watch checks.
