The end hills of Garam stretched endlessly, as they climb down and approach the river bank of sile. Their slopes draped in gold as the morning sun filtered through thinning clouds.
The air was sharp, carrying the scent of leaves turning brittle with the season's change.
Donato adjusted the strap of his leather bag, the weight of his father's last command pressing against his shoulders heavier than the wounds still healing beneath his clothes.
His eyes once restless with rebellion had sharpened into something else entirely.
A purpose, and a destiny he had not asked for, yet one he could no longer refuse.
Princess Elowen walked at his side, her cloak brushing the dust, her gaze steady and unreadable.
She carried herself with quiet majesty, but there was a fire in her eyes that had nothing to do with royal blood, it was the fire of someone who had lost, someone who had chosen not to be broken by loss.
Trailing just behind them, Jackson struggled to keep pace.
