The Duchy of Pentecase unfurled before them like a painting brushed by gods, rolling fields of sapphire grass, silvery streams mirroring the sky, ivory spires rising like silent sentinels. Even the wind carried a softer note here, gentle, fragrant with pine resin and wildflowers. No wonder visitors often mistook serenity for weakness.
Arthur Long did not.
"The Duchy of Pentecase is more beautiful than I imagined," Arthur said, voice laced with the poised cadence of a diplomat trained to measure words like blades. "It has a serenity that Xirudah's lands have long lost."
Ahce lifted a teacup, porcelain as pale as moonglass. The steam curled toward her face like a whisper.
"Serenity," she echoed, swirling the amber liquid in contemplative circles. "Perhaps that is only because our battles are fought behind closed doors."
