The procession rolled out not long after, the clatter of hooves and creak of leather harnesses breaking the hush that still lingered over the mist-veiled fields. Banners stirred in the pale wind, the morning air sharp with the scent of dew and steel.
At the head of the convoy rode Levan, composed and as silent as a statue he might as well have been carved from. Behind him, however, silence had long since surrendered.
Flanked by her assigned guards, Ilaria rode with the cheerful ease of someone wholly unaware that she was upsetting the natural order of a military formation.
Her voice carried light and clear through the cool air, animated with the sort of confidence possessed only by those who had never once in their lives been told to stop talking.
