The palace doors did not simply open.
They burst open with a force that echoed through the grand hall like thunder striking stone.
A violent crash echoed through the grand hall as wood struck stone, the sound sharp enough to slice through conversation, through music, through the fragile illusion of peace that had wrapped itself around Ivanova for far too long.
Every head turned.
A man staggered inside.
Gasps rippled through the chamber as the man stumbled in—mud-streaked, breathless, his uniform torn at the shoulder and darkened with sweat and dust.
Mud clung to him like a second skin—thick, drying along his boots and splattered up his legs.
His uniform, once bearing the royal crest with pride, was torn at the shoulder, the fabric hanging loose and darkened with sweat and something deeper—something that might have been blood.
The guards barely had time to announce him before he collapsed to one knee, struggling to steady himself.
He did not walk with dignity.
