The carriage wheels groaned slowly over the cobblestone road. The queue before the colossal gates of the Capital snaked endlessly.
A cool breeze swept through the late afternoon air. Dozens of carriages and merchant caravans lined up in perfect order. Along the flanks of the road, guards clad in pristine white armor stood rigid. *Shing—*the occasional gleam of the afternoon sun glinted off the tips of their meticulously polished spears. The order was absolute.
Roland's carriage—its rear canvas still scorched and smelling of soot from the fireball's explosion—inevitably drew much sharper, suspicious glares. Inside, Roland leaned back casually, tapping his fingers against his knee in a slow, rhythmic beat. Beside him, Rianor remained indifferent, the pages of his book rustling softly with every turn. On the opposite bench, Charis sat restlessly, continuously wringing his hands over his knees, while a trace of panic still lingered in the corners of Lira's eyes.
