The morning road stretched before them like a ribbon of dust and memory, the sun still climbing slow and gold behind the hills. The nobles rode cushioned in their lacquered carriage, its wheels turning with a steady groan upon the stones, while silken curtains swayed to shield delicate faces from the glare.
Perfume drifted faintly from within—powdered rose, amber oils, and that faint undertone of wine that clung to Augustus wherever he went.
But behind luxury always came weight.
The soldiers marched on foot, armour clattering, banners snapping faintly in the morning breeze. And among them, riding with a posture half-born of pride, half-forced by necessity, was Aiden.
His horse was not the finest beast—no barded charger or sleek-bred courser like those of the veteran knights—but a sturdy farm-trained mare, chestnut hide gleaming with sweat. Yet the creature obeyed him with the ease of familiarity, and Aiden felt a faint flicker of gratitude.
