Dawn broke gray over the capital.

  The air smelled of iron and damp earth, as if the world were preparing to bleed once more.The Douglas banner rippled above the main causeway: a silver dragon on a field of black. Beneath it, the caravan waited in silence.

  The horses snorted, their breath steaming into the low mist.Carriage wheels creaked faintly, impatient to depart.Three hundred knights lined the flanks of the procession, their black-and-silver armor catching the newborn light. Each bore the wolf insignia embroidered on his cloak—a symbol of pride, of lineage, of the fear the name Douglas stirred among the living.

  Lusian leaned against the carriage window and looked ahead.

  The first carriage was larger, plated in steel and dark wood. Inside rode his father, Duke Laurence, and Martha…The woman who had once been the love of his childhood—and the open wound that had slowly devoured his family's heart.

  He could not see their faces, but he knew they sat side by side.The thought left a bitter hollow in his chest.

  Laurence, clad in mourning black, kept his expression unreadable.Martha, veiled in black lace, held a locket containing the image of her dead son.Neither spoke.Silence was their only refuge.Between them loomed the unbearable weight of the name Caleb—the heir who would not return.

  A murmur of wind carried dust and memories alike.The northern gates groaned open, and the caravan began to move.Wheels turned over wet cobblestone, marking the rhythm of a funeral march.

  In the carriage behind them, Duchess Sofía rested her hands in her lap.

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  Her white gloves were smudged with dust, though she did not seem to notice. She watched the banners sway, the glint of armor, the metallic shimmer of dawn on spearpoints.Within her, something stirred—not sorrow, not resentment.It was a calm so taut it nearly felt like rage.

  Across from her, Isabelle Armentt—her attendant and personal guard—kept her head bowed, blonde hair veiling her face.The mark of the oath shimmered faintly at her neck: a pale trace, like a sleeping flame. That symbol bound her life to Lusian's. Should she ever betray him, the seal would blacken, and the curse would consume her slowly from within.In Kuria, loyalty had a price—and that price was death.

  Luian, the rightful heir, dozed against the window, unaware of the weight of secrets surrounding him.Sofía spared him only a brief glance.

  Then her gaze drifted toward the front carriage.She knew who rode within.She also knew what Laurence had lost.And somewhere in the quiet depths of her soul, a voice whispered that perhaps, at last, fate was beginning to balance its scales.

  Adele rode along the left flank.

  Her magical beast—a creature of black fur and ice-blue eyes—moved with the elegance of a stalking predator.Behind her marched Sofía's three beasts:Thunder, the electric steed whose mane sparked beneath the sun;Umber, the shadow wolf who cast almost no reflection;and Larriet, the golden lion whose gaze alone could break a man's spirit.

  The thunder of hooves, the wind in the banners, the cold gleam of armor—Together they formed a solemn symphony, a procession of steel and memory.

  They advanced northward, toward the mountains that marked the Douglas dominion.Behind them, the capital faded slowly into the mist.

  Lusian closed his eyes for a moment.The sway of the carriage lulled his body, but his mind remained awake.

  He did not think of his father.Nor of Martha.

  He thought of his mother—the woman who had turned humiliation into power, sorrow into resolve.And in silence, he acknowledged that he, too, had inherited a measure of that strength.

  The sun emerged faintly through the clouds.The caravan pressed onward into the roads of Kuria, where the trees seemed to watch and the air carried the scent of ancient magic.

  The journey had begun.

  And with it, the slow awakening of a world that did not yet understand who Lusian Douglas truly was.