The return to Aethelburg was slower, heavier. The victory in Verdant Grove felt fragile, a temporary calming of a fever that could spike again. They carried back with them not a trophy, but a sobering understanding: their testament could be misapplied, or worse, it could be used to justify a new kind of tyranny, as Silverport's message had hinted.
The city's walls, once a symbol of defiant survival, now felt like a welcome embrace. But the peace within was short-lived. A delegation from Silverport was waiting for them. Not a single rider or a leaf-borne message, but three officious-looking individuals in impeccably tailored travel clothes, their expressions a blend of politeness and impatient calculation. Their leader was a man named Finnian, with a smile that didn't touch his eyes and fingers that steepled constantly, as if measuring invisible things.
