The Fifth Of The Next Month…
The morning of the fifth dawned bright and clear, the sky a vast, unbroken expanse of blue. It was the kind of day poets wrote about, a day that promised glory.
Outside the imposing gates of the Royal Barracks, a black carriage rolled to a stop. The horses stamped their hooves, sensing the tension in the air.
Inside, Ashlyn sat close to Carlos. She reached up, her hands steady, and straightened the high collar of his new military coat. She smoothed the fabric over his shoulders, picking off an invisible speck of dust.
"You have done your best this past few weeks," Ashlyn said, her voice filled with a supportive warmth she didn't entirely feel. She was anxious. The prophecy was clear, but the waiting was torture.
Carlos puffed out his chest, looking at his reflection in the carriage window. He looked the part. He looked like a commander.
