The return to the capital was not the triumphant parade the people had imagined.
The royal procession moved slowly through the grand gates under a sky still heavy with the smoke of distant pyres. Thousands had gathered along the wide avenue, waving banners and cheering, but the cheers felt thin, almost hesitant. Too many wagons followed behind the main column, laden with the wounded, the dead wrapped in simple cloth, and the broken remnants of what had once been proud northern standards now dragged in the dirt as symbols of defeat.
Seren rode between her mates, wrapped in a heavy cloak that did little to hide the bandages beneath. Her body ached with every step of the horse. The dark fur along her shoulders and forearms was still matted in places with dried blood that no amount of washing could fully remove. The bond thrummed with shared exhaustion and quiet relief, but beneath it lay the heavy weight of loss.
