Leonardo did not sleep that night.
When dawn finally broke in the east, bathing the royal camp in a pale, sickly light, the Crown Prince of Aethelgard was still standing in the same spot—outside his tent, staring toward Torshavn. In his hands, he still clutched two letters. One from his enemy, offering peace. One from his mother, offering exile.
He answered neither.
And as dust began to kick up on the southern horizon, he finally received an answer he hadn't asked for.
Alistair Solari had arrived.
The Duke of Highgarden spurred his horse at the head of the column—or rather, what remained of it. A thousand cavalry, perhaps fewer, followed behind him in a loose, disorganized formation. Their horses were gaunt, their eyes wild with exhaustion, and their armor was dented and scarred—marks of a battle they had not won.
