The next morning, a dust-laced wind stirred through the Southern Gate of the capital as the creaking sound of wooden wheels echoed across the cobbled path. A royal carriage, old but stately in design, rumbled steadily forward. The Iron Hooves horses—massive, muscular beasts clad in blackened armor—pulled it with a solemn grace, their snorts steaming in the cool morning air.
"Open the gate! Master Roan has returned!"
A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the early haze, echoing from atop the high watchtowers.
Almost instantly, a flurry of movement erupted within the garrison. Guards scrambled into position, straightening their armor and clearing the path. Gates groaned as they were drawn open, and even Master Anek, the stern commander of the Southern Guard, broke protocol and came rushing out to personally greet the arriving carriage.
Roan's reputation preceded him. His seniority alone demanded such reverence—his presence was not just expected; it was respected.
