The wind bit against his face, but Alaric barely noticed.
Behind him, the Skyblade Knights rode in perfect formation, their banners snapping in the wind.
But his thoughts were not on the glory of the march.
They were on her.
On the whispers he'd heard all along the road back, rumors carried from village to village.
Two noble ladies dead. Then four. Then nine.
All branded with a crescent moon.
Then the one that had nearly cost a man his life: that Rose Daphne herself had been attacked.
He had seized the throat of the messenger, his fury barely restrained, before his officers tore him away.
"Lie to me again," Alaric had snarled, "and I will end you where you stand."
Since then, his riding had been merciless, as if distance itself was an enemy he could crush beneath his horse's hooves.
Now, at last, the walls of Eldoria loomed.
