Castor led the procession through his own gates like a prisoner escorting his executioner.
His back was rigid, shoulders tight and every few minutes he glanced back at Auryn—checking if the prince was still there, still real, still coming to his castle despite every instinct in him screaming this was madness.
The fifty soldiers rode in formation with the miners they'd picked up on the way. These were his men, his territory. His family's authority for two hundred years. But right now, none of that seemed to matter.
Auryn had won at council, claimed his northern district and now rode toward 'Valir Keep' like he owned it already or maybe he did.
Appearing ahead was the city of Valeroy, obvious by it's imposing walls, thirty feet high from ground level. With dragon-carved wards that ran along the battlements, symbols he recognized from Uruk but alas smaller and less intricate.
