By dawn, the Grandal Knights were prepared to move. Even if they hadn't stayed for long, Deimos was much safer when they were here.
Carriages were loaded one by one, horses fed and checked. Armor was polished, straps tightened, and crates were sealed.
Duke Grandal stood near the central carriage, reviewing final preparations with his officers. Gone was last night's festival warmth; the Duke was once again the stern patriarch of Grandal territory, every movement decisive, every word carrying the weight of command.
Amelia was among the last to finish packing.
The festival outfit Ryn had seen yesterday was replaced with an attire similar to a horse jockey's outfit, but way elevated with gold engravings and decorations fit for an heir of Grandal.
The shift from last night's softness to this morning's reality was stark.
The celebration was over. The world was already pulling them in different directions.
