The Imperial Carriage was a masterpiece of lethal engineering. Woven from reinforced ironwood and plated with concealed steel, it was designed to withstand a direct artillery strike. It was drawn by six massive, midnight-black warhorses, their hooves thundering against the northern highway at maximum velocity.
Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was a bizarre intersection of a war room and a bridal suite.
Elara sat perfectly straight on the plush velvet bench. A specialized, fold-out mahogany desk was locked across her lap, covered in logistical reports, supply chain calculations, and a small, secure inkwell. Her quill scratched furiously across the parchment.
Across from her, Julian sat with his arms crossed, watching her with a mixture of profound awe and lingering disbelief.
