The carriages stopped, the convoy shuddering to stillness as the sound of hooves stilled and banners swayed in the uneasy wind.
A guard sprinted ahead, armor clattering, already shouting toward the window where nobles watched. A fight had broken out.
Murmurs rippled through the knights, through the servants clutching reins, through some commoners forced to wait at the roadside. Tension clung to the morning air like frost.
And then they all saw it.
The mess.
A body on the dirt, headless, its armor twitching in the spasms of death.
The son of Baron Melodias lay crumpled in a grotesque heap, crimson soaking into the soil.
His head, still crowned with the faint arrogance of youth, rolled several feet away, its eyes glassy with disbelief, lips parted as if to form one final denial.
The smell of blood carried sharp and metallic on the air, mingling with dust, sweat, and horsehide. Some knights turned their heads, grimacing.
