The announcement arrived as a series of coordinated memos from the Royal Strategic Office, distributed to the heads of each noble House and the administrative leads of the capital.
The King was returning.
Sorgos began to shift. Banners of gold and crimson, tucked away during the months of the blockade, were brought out of cedar chests and shaken free of dust. Then they were hung—each flag exactly three feet from its neighbor, each spear-tip polished to a mirror sheen.
The guard rotations were reinforced, not because of a threat, but because order was the new currency of the capital.
Merchants in the lower wards began adjusting their stock, pulling forward the expensive wines and the fine silks, yet there was a strange, muted quality to the preparation. The mood wasn't ecstatic; it was anticipatory. Measured.
The war hadn't been catastrophic. It had been, as the dispatches repeatedly emphasized, efficient.
Elias had hated the word since he was at the academy.
