The wind carried the smell of smoke long before the riders crested the final hill.
Aiden reined in his horse atop the ridge, cloak still dusted with the gray ash of Veylthorne's estate. Behind him, the column of holy knights rode in perfect silence, their white-and-gold armor dulled by soot and night travel. No banners flew. No songs rose. They had done the Church's work, and now they would let the Church claim it.
Below, the capital sprawled like a jeweled crown under winter stars—towers of alabaster and obsidian, the great river reflecting torchlight, the Dragon Palace a dark silhouette against the palace proper.
Somewhere in that glittering maze, proclamations were already being drafted. Bells would ring at dawn. The empire would wake to news of divine judgment delivered upon a treacherous duke.
Aiden felt the new power settle in his chest like warm wine.
Not a rush. Not a surge. Just a quiet, inevitable weight.
