[On the Way to Zahryssar Empire—Inside the Carriage]
Sunlight spilled gently into the carriage, painting warm gold across the embroidered seats. The desert winds were still distant; for now, crisp mountain air mingled with the faint scent of winter herbs.
Duke Aren Veyrhold sat by the window, gazing at the horizon where snow met sand. His face—usually a stone mask of nobility—held something rare:
Warmth, softness, a father's quiet happiness.
Not a smile… But something deeper.
Aelira watched him from the opposite seat, legs crossed with poise, her silks shifting like frost-kissed petals. She tilted her head, studying the uncharacteristic tenderness on her father's face.
"It has been a long time," she said gently, "since I have seen such an expression from you, Father."
Duke Aren blinked, pulled from his thoughts, and turned toward her. His voice, when it came, was low and steady—carrying the weight of a man who had spent years keeping his emotions buried.
