A week passed.
On the newly restored borders where the Serathil carved its rightful path into Kaltharion once more, the war camp thrummed with quiet preparation. Spring unfurled around them, flowering branches swaying, the river's bright voice threading through the canvas walls of their tent. It should have been peaceful. But peace had already chosen a side.
Lorraine sat reclined on a cushioned chair, one hand resting on her belly, the other propping her cheek as she watched her husband bend over the war table. Leroy, surrounded by the kings who had sworn themselves to him, looked like the man fate always meant him to be. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes burning with certainty rather than doubt.
One by one, those rulers had knelt, with bows of loyalty given to the heir of Aurelthar. And each time they sank to the ground before him, Lorraine's heart fluttered with a dark, sweet pride.
