The Obsidian Spire stood silent behind them as the caravan rolled out at dawn. No trumpets, no cheers.
Just the creak of carriage wheels on gravel and the steady clop of hooves. Aiden sat high on his black stallion at the head of the line, cloak pulled tight around his neck even though the morning air was already warm.
The fractures on his jaw and throat glowed faintly under the collar, thin lines of silver light that refused to stay hidden.
He could feel every eye on him—his own guards, the noble husbands riding beside their carriages, and the women inside them.
Isolde rode in Aiden's personal carriage, the largest one at the center of the column.
She sat straight-backed, hands folded in her lap, watching the road ahead through the open window. The other carriages carried the noblewomen who had spent the last weeks at the Spire.
