The transition from the Glacial Crown to the Golden Heart of the Western Empire was a violent sensory upheaval. For months, Vera's world had been defined by the clinical silence of sapphire ice and the ozone-heavy scent of the North. Now, as the imperial carriage crested the final hill overlooking the capital, the world was drowned in the liquid gold of a setting sun. The air smelled of dry cedar, baked stone, and the distant, sweet tang of orange woods.
Kassian sat across from her, his posture rigid. Even through his heavy velvet robes, the "Sun-curse" was visible, flickering like a trapped phoenix beneath the skin of his throat. He was home, but he was not at peace. The moment they had crossed the Silver Line, the political messengers had descended like vultures. His uncle, Duke Lysander, had not spent his house arrest in idle silence. The old man had used his connections to stir the merchant guilds and whisper conflict among the border lords.
