Draven.
The gates of Stormveil opened without a word. Two lines of guards stood on either side, their armour polished to a dull gleam beneath the fading night.
When my car rolled forward, they bowed in unison—heads lowered, fists pressed against their chests.
The silence that followed was sharper than any fanfare.
The engine's low hum filled the air as the convoy moved past the guards. My eyes swept the inner walls—unchanged, yet older somehow.
The scent of pine, smoke, and iron lingered in the morning air, wrapping the city in its familiar austerity.
People had gathered along the narrow streets. Not a crowd, but clusters—workers in half-buttoned coats, soldiers on leave, a few merchants who had risen early.
Their eyes followed the convoy as it made its way through the city. Some bowed when they recognized the crest on the cars; others stared in muted awe, trying to make sense of what they saw.
Low voices rippled across the silence.
"Is that him?"
