The gates of the garrison loomed ahead, iron teeth biting against the sky. Smoke curled from chimneys within, mingling with the sharp scent of tar and horses, but it was not the familiar stench of the city that set Aiden's nerves on edge.
It was the line of armored men waiting just inside—helms glinting, shields raised as if expecting an invading force rather than their own returning knights.
The clang of their spears striking the ground echoed like a funeral drum.
Aiden's jaw clenched. He knew before he even saw the man at their head.
The Earl of Wessex.
An man, broad-shouldered despite the weight of years, with a face carved from authority itself. His cloak bore no dust, no travel stain, as though the world itself dared not mar him.
His eyes, pale and cold as a wolf's, fixed directly on Aiden—not with curiosity, but with condemnation already passed.
