The iron-banded gates of the royal capital swung inward with a prolonged, echoing shudder that resonated across the deep moat.
Under the harsh glare of the midday sun, the battered column of the imperial vanguard marched slowly across the drawbridge into the lower thoroughfare.
Four grueling days of forced marching from the northern foothills left the armored cavalry caked in gray road dust and dried alpine mud.
Crowds of merchants, common laborers, and guild scouts lined the cobblestone streets, their eyes widening in astonishment as they watched the company pass.
Whispers rippled through the gathering onlookers like wind across dry wheat, carrying frantic murmurs of utter disbelief.
Word spread throughout the capital two days prior that Lord Kenny was the sole heroic survivor of a total massacre in the northern mountains.
Every tavern in the commercial quarter buzzed with the young lord's dramatic tales of narrow escape and heroic last stands.
