The gates of the capital hadn't seen fifty Veyrannese warhorses in living memory.
They saw them now.
Meyrn of Veyranne rode at the front of the column like a man who had personally declared war on geometry — too big for his saddle, too loud for the morning, and too furious to care about either. His warhorse was a monstrous grey stallion called Butcher, because Meyrn named everything the way he did everything else: bluntly, violently, and with complete disregard for anyone's feelings.
He hadn't slept in two days. Hadn't bathed in three. His black hair was wild, his green eyes were bloodshot, and his riding cloak was covered in enough mud and road dust to plant a garden. He looked like a bandit king who had gotten lost on the way to a siege and accidentally found a palace.
The gate guards tried to stop him.
Tried.
"Halt! State your name and purpose, by order of—"
