Marcus Valenor rarely ignored a summons from the military district.
Even now, long after he had been stripped of command and placed within the complicated structure of royal consortship, the rhythms of the army still lingered in his bones.
So when the messenger arrived at Isolde's palace that morning bearing the seal of the Marshal of the Border Legions, Marcus did not hesitate.
He left immediately.
The military quarter of the capital sat apart from the glittering halls of court. Stone barracks, training fields, and armories replaced polished marble and silk banners. The air smelled faintly of steel, leather, and dust—comfortingly familiar to a man who had spent most of his life among soldiers.
Marcus crossed the training courtyard where several young recruits were drilling under a sergeant's watchful eye.
The men stiffened the moment they recognized him.
Even without rank, Marcus Valenor still carried the weight of his reputation.
The sergeant barked an order.
"Hold!"
