They heard the music before they entered the castle.
Not horns. Not drums of procession or warning. Strings, in light melody.
Light, quick notes dancing on the wind, threaded with flutes and the steady rhythm of hand-beaten percussion. The castle doors stood wide beneath banners of gold and ivory, silk catching the afternoon sun until the entire facade seemed molten.
Flowers lined the entire space.
Aya slowed her pace instinctively.
Bason moved closer to her, his heavy frame brushing against her boot as though he, too, sensed the shift in the air. This was not the cautious stillness of the North. Not the hard, measured silence of the South.
This was warmth.
The floor beneath her shoes had been swept clean and then dressed again in petals - amber, white, soft blush. Balconies above were crowded, not with guards but with families. Silk streamers drifted lazily from carved railings. Somewhere within the walls, laughter rang out, unrestrained and bright.
