Sorza , the eldest son of Shameliek, passed through the vaulted halls of his father's court, every step of his boots swallowed by the vast silence.
The scent of incense still lingered in the air—thick, cloying, ceremonial—but the usual sounds were gone. No heralds. No courtiers. No advisors rushing forward to whisper updates or bow low.
He walked with the stiff posture of a prince, but inside, Sorza was simply tired. Tired of the road, of the blood, of the silence.
The last three days had been a blur of hooves and dust and sleepless dread. Ever since the order to return to the capital had been shouted in his ear like a curse when he has sighted his father falling with his horse, he had ridden day and night.
No time to rest, no time to think. Just a rush southward, from battlefield to border, chased by rumors and the shadows of defeat.
It wasn't until they crossed into a friendly city that the madness paused.
