The sun hung low as Inigo and Lyra rode at the head of the procession, their path winding through the capital's northern gate. Word of their triumph had already spread, galloping faster than any horse. By the time the first banner of Ironmark crossed into the city, the streets were already lined with thousands of citizens. Children waved ribbons. Bakers threw flower petals from their stalls. From high balconies, nobles and scholars alike watched with folded hands and parted lips.
"They look at you like you're not from this world," Lyra murmured, her bow slung over her shoulder.
Inigo, dressed in clean leathers with his tactical vest polished and patched, kept his expression calm. The Apache helicopter had been left at the outskirts under heavy guard. He'd insisted it not enter the city walls.
"I'm not," he said softly. "But I'm here now. So I guess that makes me responsible."
