Prince Alaric rode in grim silence, Lara at his side, flanked by the Norse generals and the soldiers of the Phoenix Legion. Their return to the palace bore no echoes of victory—only the bitter weight of survival.
The city's great gates opened not to triumph, but to silence. No fanfare, no banners—only the hush of a kingdom holding its breath. Smoke still curled from rooftops charred in the night's slaughter. Blood stained the cobblestones, unwashed, a grim reminder that the queen's golden jubilee had become a massacre.
Though Zura had been beaten back, triumph was hollow. While enemy forces swarmed the palace, rebels and bandits had descended upon the city outside, leaving ruin in their wake.
At the column's center rattled a carriage that bore the kingdom's broken heart: a queen stripped of crown and dignity, a hollow-eyed princess consort, and an adopted daughter who wept until her body shook.
