The Velrane estate erupted with activity as if someone had kicked over a hive of particularly well-dressed bees. Soren stood in the courtyard, dust from the road still clinging to his boots, watching servants sprint across the grounds with the grim determination of soldiers preparing for war.
'What in seven hells is happening?' he thought, stepping aside as two men hurried past with a silver banner longer than a jousting lance.
The shard pulsed cold against his chest, Valenna's presence sharpening with what felt like amusement. 'Welcome to the true battlefield, little knife. Swords may draw blood, but words leave deeper wounds.'
Everywhere Soren looked, preparations unfolded with practiced urgency. Servants polished armor that would clearly never see combat, its decorative scrollwork too delicate for anything but display.
