The heavy, iron-studded gates of Solmire ground opened with a familiar, tectonic rumble, revealing the pale stone and vibrant autumnal banners of the capital.
After the suffocating, soot-stained atmosphere of Nevareth, the air here felt thin and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke.
It was the smell of home, yet as the carriage wheels rattled over the cobblestones, Caelen felt a distinct, jarring disconnect. The city hadn't changed, but the man returning to it had.
A small army of officials had already assembled in the courtyard, their colorful robes a stark contrast to the utilitarian furs of the North.
News of the royal party's approach had traveled ahead via fast riders, and the machinery of the Solmire welcome began to turn with its usual, reliable precision. It didn't matter that an empire was crumbling weeks away; here, protocol was the only god that never slept.
