The morning air in Varyndor was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and distant forge smoke. The palace grounds were quiet. The usual training sounds were absent, replaced by low whispers and nervous glances.
At the edge of the training field, Sir Veyne stood with arms crossed, eyes scanning the open area. Soldiers milled about in small groups, throwing occasional glances toward the gates.
"Is he really coming back?" one murmured.
"After what happened yesterday? I'd stay in bed," another replied.
Veyne didn't respond. His mind was divided—half worried for Dameon's mental state, half wondering if he should have handled yesterday differently. The boy had changed. That much was clear. But how deep did that change run?
Just then, the gates creaked open.
Footsteps.
Steady. Calm.
Dameon entered the field, cloak trailing lightly behind him, hair white as snow beneath the morning sun. His eyes were unreadable, calm but intense—like a storm hiding behind glass.
