The approach to the capital was choreographed chaos, a carefully orchestrated display of imperial might disguised as ceremony.
The road widened as they drew closer, transforming from packed snow into smooth cobblestone lined with towering ice sculptures. Each one depicted a different moment from Nevareth's history: ancient battles, legendary rulers, the mythical founding when Aenithra herself was said to have blessed these lands with her tears.
Crowds had gathered along the route, kept at a respectful distance by the ceremonial guard but close enough to gawk, to whisper, to wonder. Eris as usual could feel their eyes on her, thousands of gazes measuring, judging, questioning. The foreign bride-to-be of their beloved Emperor.
Some Nevarians showed curiosity, others suspicion, and more than a few held open hostility, barely masked beneath polite expressions. She met none of their stares, keeping her gaze forward, her spine straight, every inch the monarch she had once been.
