The carriage wheels struck cobblestone with a rhythm that had accompanied Rulen Zarionel through half the kingdom.
He pulled the curtain aside. Coraeis lay two weeks behind him; Moriador, the capital spread ahead—towers catching the afternoon sun, banners of crimson and gold snapping from every second wall. The palace rose at the city's heart, white stone gleaming like something carved from winter itself.
Rulen let the curtain fall.
He'd forgotten how bright everything here was.
A knock tapped the window beside him.
Kael rode alongside, reins in one hand. His voice carried through the glass. "Your Highness, we will reach the eastern gate soon."
Rulen shifted slightly. "Thank you."
Kael nodded toward the man inside. "Try not to bore His Highness too much, Master Narin."
Narin waved him off with a flick of his fingers. "Go handle your horse, young man. Leave conversation to those born with patience."
