Sevrin's mother steps closer to his side. "You had better hope he is not here for revenge," she says quietly. "Men do not return like this without intention."
Colsar does not acknowledge the crowd. He does not look at the soldiers who knelt for him. He does not slow. His attention lifts toward the palace steps.
Toward Sevrin.
Their eyes meet. The courtyard holds.
Then a new sound rises in the distance. Measured and rhythmic, growing louder as it approaches. Sevrin turns his head toward the gates. Another procession enters. Lighter in color, the formation wider than the first, ordered and precise, the ranks stretching beyond the entrance in a way that makes the courtyard feel suddenly smaller than it had a moment ago.
Beside him the Princess of Yorali speaks under her breath. "Green and gold," she says. "It cannot be."
The banners come fully into view.
Alarna.
CHAPTER 75
The Baskets
The second procession does not slow as it enters. Ranks of soldiers move in clean lines, armor marked in green and gold, the formation holding even as they cross into the courtyard. Horses step in unison beside them. The sound carries as one. They look ahead, toward the palace, toward him.
Something follows at the center of the formation.
Low, enclosed and moving without wheels. Layers of heavy fabric fall from its frame, dark and reinforced, the fabric moving slightly as it advances. The structure beneath holds its lines too cleanly, contained in a way that suggests design rather than craft.
It glides forward with an unnatural smoothness, as though the ground has no claim on it at all. The soldiers nearest it keep their distance. A faint heat presses outward from it, constant and controlled, and the air around it hums with something Sevrin cannot name. It comes to a stop at the base of the steps.
At first, nothing happens.
Then a length of gold is drawn out from beneath it and unrolled across the courtyard floor, stretching from the opening to the first step of the palace.
The door opens. A figure is helped down, veiled, face hidden beneath fabric that pools at the shoulders. The figure pauses at the threshold, then steps forward.
Colsar drops to one knee. The motion is immediate and without hesitation, and a murmur moves through the courtyard like something released.
Beside Sevrin his mother goes very still. "He kneels," she says under her breath. "To her."
The silver-haired man steps forward, a scroll already open in his hand.
"It is our honor to welcome to Veynar?—"
Colsar rises. He steps toward her and his hands find the veil with a care that belongs to something private, drawing it back slowly until it falls away entirely.
For a second Sevrin does not understand what he is seeing.
Gold spills free. A cascade of it, tumbling down her back in waves, bright against the grey of the courtyard.
The gasps come before the herald can continue.
No.
His voice carries over them regardless. "Alarna's most beloved Queen Heir?—"
No.
“Asharanis of Alarna."
Her head lifts. Her face comes fully into view, those eyes of molten gold meeting his, just briefly. Enough to make his hands tremble with want. With need.
