Aric rode into the Imperial City, his horse's hooves clacking steadily against the cobblestone streets. Behind him, his men and the court trailed at a distance, scarcely visible.
He had chosen to ride alone, as tradition demanded of a prince returning from war. The wind tugged at his cloak, sending it billowing like a black banner behind him. Yet the city itself remained eerily still.
Not a sound stirred within the towering walls of Valeria. Not a soul appeared on the streets. Only the steady rhythm of hooves striking stone filled the silence.
Aric understood this silence—it was ritual.
He had seen it before: the empty streets that greeted victorious warlords. It was not fear or indifference that kept the people hidden, but reverence. The triumphant must walk alone before being welcomed.
Alone, so that the weight of their victories—and the blood of their enemies—might settle upon them, and the city itself might acknowledge their triumph.
