Solthera's spires looked like jagged crystal fingers reaching for a sky that had turned its back on them. As the battered army approached the city gates, the morning mist brought no warmth.
At the head of the procession, the Starfall Tree banner was carried with a heavy, rhythmic pace. It wasn't a piece of silk anymore; it was a shroud. It cradled the cold relics of a man who had been the city's heartbeat.
Aetheron marched at the front. His boots, caked with the dried blood and grey mud of the Crimson Pass, sounded like a drumbeat against the cobblestones. Beside him, Kaelor walked in a silence that was more supportive than any speech.
As the massive iron gates creaked open, the people of Solthera lined the streets. They didn't cheer. They simply watched, their faces pale. The whispers of Eldric's fate spread through the crowd like wildfire.
The procession halted at the Grand Hall's marble steps. There, the High Seer waited. Her grey robes flowed around her like smoke.
"Solthera does not just mourn its King," she said, her voice echoing through the square. "It witnesses the return of a legacy. The Drazhin leave no bodies; they leave only the marks of their struggle."
With trembling hands, a captain placed the wrapped bundle on a stone pedestal. For a moment, the silk slipped. The crowd caught a glimpse of the silver crown and the hilt of Dawnbreaker.
Aetheron's chest tightened. Seeing his father's things sitting there—empty and cold—was a fresh wound.
The crowd began to kneel, a slow wave of grief filling the square. Aetheron faced them, his voice rasping but steady. "My father is the stars now, but I am the fire here on the ground." He looked at the elder Lords, noticing a flicker of doubt in their eyes. He was a Prince untested, and the shadows were already closing in.