The journey to the capital took longer than expected.
The roads were crowded with mourners making their way to the king's funeral, their wagons and carriages clogging the thoroughfares. Nobles in black finery. Priests with incense and holy water. Common folk who had walked for days to pay their respects.
Kaelen traveled with a small retinue. Roland rode at the head of the group, his face set in the careful neutrality he reserved for political occasions. Alistair and Lysander flanked Kaelen on either side, their presence a quiet comfort. Lyra rode behind them, her satchel packed with scrolls and notes.
The journey was somber. The landscape had recovered from the Pestilence, but the scars remained. Withered fields. Abandoned farms. The occasional grave marker, still fresh.
But there were signs of healing too. New crops pushing through the soil. Children playing in the streets. Laughter, tentative but real.
Kaelen watched it all, his heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead.
