The wind had grown chill.
Autumn had crept in unnoticed, brushing its fingertips across the land. The days no longer burned. The nights whispered with cool breath. A slow stillness had begun to settle over Velmora—not the silence of stagnation, but of change.
The kind that comes before winter.
The kind that comes before endings.
Alaric—now known to the kingdom as Cedric—had become something of a myth made real.
He no longer returned to the Crydias Estate as often as before. His footsteps had carved a new rhythm, one tied not to walls or halls, but to people.
He traveled daily—walking the spine of the cities, weaving through slums and noble districts alike, a presence both feared and revered.
He had become a saint of the people.
Not of the Church.
The Church refused to claim him. And he, in turn, had no interest in letting them.
He didn't carry doctrine.
He carried results.
And the people welcomed his every arrival with open hearts.
