The caravan reached the capital's outer gates just before noon. The massive stone walls rose thirty feet high, lined with imperial banners that hung limp in the still air.
Food riots had left marks—charred stalls along the roadside, broken paving stones, and clusters of city guards posted every fifty paces.
Crowds gathered behind barricades, murmuring as the column approached. Some people shouted the Emperor's name. Most stayed silent, watching with tired eyes.
Aiden rode at the front on his black stallion, cloak buttoned high despite the heat.
The fractures on his jaw and neck pulsed faintly, silver lines visible whenever the fabric shifted. Behind him rolled the carriages carrying the noblewomen and their husbands.
Isolde sat in Aiden's personal carriage, watching the city through the window. The mood in the column was heavy. No one cheered their return.
