The towers rose above the snow-capped hills, shrouded in a cold mist that reflected the pale glow of the afternoon sun. The walls were vast, reinforced with black iron and crimson banners that fluttered heavily in the wind. The banners bore the duchy's symbol—a silver falcon with its talons spread over a field of wine.
The road leading to the main gates was lined with rows of ice-covered pine trees. The sound of Ester's white horse's hooves echoed along the path, accompanied by the relaxed rhythm of Damon's laughter.
"Beautiful place," he commented, leaning over her shoulder, his voice thick with irony. "But it seems… cold. Like you."
Ester didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the approaching walls, taking in details—the archers positioned on the parapets, the way the guards exchanged discreet glances, the reinforced plates of the gate. The Duchy of Paraphal had always been known for its ostentation… and its paranoia.
