The morning of the departure arrived not with a golden sunrise, but with a heavy, oppressive grey sky that seemed to flatten the world. Their world.
The courtyard was a hive of activity. Silver-gilded carriages, embossed with the sun-disk of the Holy Empire, stood like alien monuments against the dark stone of the manor.
Elian was already mounted on a pale mare, his expression one of patient, serene victory. He watched as the heavy doors of the manor creaked open for the last time.
Julian stepped out, his breath hitching in the frigid air. He was bundled in the thickest Northern furs, but the cold he felt wasn't from the wind—it was the hollow ache in his chest.
In his arms, he held Lucius, who was clinging to him with a quiet, fierce desperation.
Alaric walked beside them, his presence a dark, towering shadow. Behind them, Zane followed, his usual flamboyant air replaced by a sharp, calculating stillness as he adjusted his riding gloves.
