The carriage wheels struck cobblestone with a rhythm that had accompanied Rulen Zarionel through half the kingdom.
He pulled the curtain aside. Coraeis lay two weeks behind him; the capital spread ahead—towers catching the afternoon sun, banners of crimson and gold snapping from every second wall. The palace rose at the city's heart, white stone gleaming like something carved from winter itself.
Rulen let the curtain fall.
He'd forgotten how bright everything here was.
"Your Highness." Kael's voice came from the opposite bench. "We're approaching the eastern gate."
Rulen glanced at his bodyguard. The man sat with his hands folded, spine straight, expression blank as polished marble. Kael had accompanied him since Coraeis—a gift from the Summus Luminar himself. Twenty-eight years old, third-tier Arkspren, and possessed of the kind of silence that made servants nervous.
"You'll wait in the guest wing," Rulen said. "The palace staff will see to your quarters."
"As you command."
