The capital city of Luminaris was accustomed to spectacle.
Royal processions were common.
Noble carriages clogged the main thoroughfares daily.
But the arrival of the Duchess of Roselle was different.
It was not a parade. It was a projection of power.
Catarina Roselle rode into the city with an entourage of fifty heavy cavalry.
Their armor was polished to a mirror shine. Their green cloaks snapped in the wind with disciplined uniformity.
At the center of the formation rode the Duchess herself.
She did not wave to the crowds. She sat atop her white stallion with a posture so rigid it looked painful.
She looked every inch the Iron Duchess.
Marcus watched the arrival from the window of his rented townhouse.
He felt a familiar knot of anxiety in his stomach.
"She looks ready to invade," Damien noted, standing beside him. "Or execute someone."
"She's visiting for 'political consultations,'" Marcus said.
